REPERCUSSIONS
by vmariew
Summary: Paris 1629 and relations between France and Spain are seriously threatened. Treville is under pressure from the King and Cardinal to find those responsible for the treachery but investigations have repercussions for all involved. Danger comes too close to home, the Inseparables are missing and Treville needs a new second-in-command.
1. Chapter 1

_**This story is set in the late summer of 1629 so it is pre-season 1 and our musketeers are embroiled in another adventure of derring-do. It falls between the events on R**_ _ **é**_ _ **in 1627 (recounted in 'Retribution') and a year before 'Renegade'.**_

 _ **Disclaimer - I do not own the main characters; they belong to Alexandre Dumas and the BBC but many other minor characters that I have created and who have appeared in my other longer works may make an appearance here also. I try, as far as possible, to keep to the canon of the books, the television series and the details that I have created.**_

 _ **Thank you so much for the final feedback on 'Redemption'. I tried to message all but some were guests so I hope you are reading this. I really appreciated all comments.**_

 _ **I must, though, express a massive 'thank you' to Mountain Cat who has been my sounding board from the inception of this story and throughout its development. She has kept my thoughts straight and my planning clear. I set myself a new target with each story and this one has to be, "Just how complicated and convoluted can I make it?"**_

 _ **I hope you enjoy it!**_

CHAPTER 1

Captain Tréville raised his hand and that was enough to bring the patrol to a halt behind him on the dusty road. Pulling out a handkerchief from a pocket, he wiped it around the back of his neck and over his face, grimacing at the feeling of escaping sweat trickling down the inside of his shirt.

Pulling his hat down low over his eyes, he dared to look up at the sky; a clear blue with not even the tiniest wisp of cloud scudding across it. It was not yet midday and the temperatures were already relentlessly climbing. Taking that into consideration and seeing the dust clouds kicked up by the horses' hooves, no-one would believe that there had just been several days of repeated summer storms and torrential rain, all of which had done little to clear the air.

The water had failed to penetrate the hard-packed earth in some areas whilst in others, where the soil was a glutinous clay, the heavy rains had transformed roads into rivers of thick cloying mud that had their mounts whinnying nervously and picking their way carefully. If their progress was severely hampered, it was not surprising that the Spanish Ambassador had been delayed to the point of arousing some concerns. Méndez had been expected to arrive in Paris two days earlier and there had been no advance messengers received at court to either explain his tardiness or herald his approach.

Tréville was uneasy, an instinct borne of years of experience which had initiated this patrol riding out to meet the Ambassador – or determine the reason for his delay. His gut-feeling and the importance of the Spaniard had made the decision easy for him to lead his men himself. The fact that his three best men were also gone from the garrison whilst involved in another aspect of this clandestine mission did not help so that he was finding it increasingly difficult to sit at his desk attending to paperwork or be at the palace, watching his impatient monarch pacing the floor and demanding why the Ambassador was not there right at that moment.

Cardinal Richelieu was not helping matters with his sly insinuations about the incompetence of Musketeers as the hour of the men's anticipated return had also passed. Tréville had objected, pointing out that an exact time of arrival was both impossible and unreasonable for there could be any number of explanations behind their being detained. His concerns for any of his men only realistically began when a delay ran into two days or more if they were travelling far beyond Paris as was happening on this occasion. The unit had ridden north to Lille, just south of the border and however hard a man tried, there was no accounting for inclement weather, a bridge washed out that could add nearly a day to a journey in the search for another crossing, or a horse becoming lame so that a replacement was necessary. He dared not allow his mind to think of potential illness, injury or their being subjected to an attack – not yet.

Now, the Captain hoped that the mud had been the only thing to slow the Ambassador's carriage and his entourage. Méndez was bound for Paris with a document agreed and signed by Philip, the Spanish King, to maintain peace between the two countries. There was opposition on both sides to the Treaty, but it would be beneficial to the nations to avoid an outright declaration of war. Neither could bear a strain on their coffers and it would put Louis' Spanish Queen in an invidious position if war began against her brother. The Spanish, already embroiled in conflict, could ill-afford spreading their forces more thinly and the French were still recovering from the need to subdue the Huguenots and fend off English involvement.

He sat in the saddle awaiting the rider who approached at a fast pace; he was one of two who had been sent ahead as scouts. Even as the man reined in level with him, Tréville knew from his expression that the news was not good.

"Well?" he demanded gruffly.

Claude Béranger, one of the most senior Musketeers in age still on active service, shook his head. "They're about half a league ahead. No survivors. I left Sebastien there guardin' the scene."

Tréville nodded his approval at the older man's foresight. "No sign of those responsible?"

"Nothin'," Claude answered. "They'd be long gone by now if they've any sense. Looks like they were attacked a few hours ago – they could've been on the road at first light - or maybe even late yesterday. The Ambassador might've been makin' for that town we passed a while ago to spend the night."

The Captain thought for a moment, his mouth set in a grim line. "We had better go and investigate then."

The column moved on quietly, the men intuitively picking up on the Captain's mood from his exchange with the seasoned soldier, even though they could not hear what had been said.

"Round the next bend," Claude warned eventually. "Road's quite wide there. Two carriages or carts could easily pass but the trees come down both sides to line the road."

"Good place to set an ambush then; plenty of cover for an element of surprise and yet some space for manoeuvrability so they don't get in each other's way," Tréville commented, bracing himself for the horror he was about to see. "Any indication as to how many there might have been?"

"Plenty of 'em but nothing exact," Claude answered. "The trees meant the ground hadn't 'ad time to dry out completely after all that rain. It's churned up badly."

The scene was just as Claude had described when they came upon it with sweeping bends coming into and leading from the area. There was a terrible stillness and no sounds; the birds had either fallen into a respectful silence or taken flight, refusing to stay near the atrocity. All the horses – the mounts of the escort and the four that should have been pulling the Ambassador's carriage – were gone. Even Sebastien stood without moving, pistol in hand as he watched their approach.

The horseless carriage looked odd, abandoned as it was in the middle of the road. Painted black with a red and gold trim, one of its doors was carelessly thrown wide open, the crest emblazoned on it speaking of the importance of the man it carried.

Tréville's eyes took in the sight and he did a quick count of the bodies strewn around the carriage and along the road.

"Wait," he ordered the men behind him as he swiftly dismounted and picked his way carefully amongst the dead, eyes continuing to dart everywhere for any potential evidence and ascertaining how the victims died.

Fifteen men in different aspects of death; not for them the comfort of a soft pillow and a held hand as they gasped their last. The ends they met were sudden, brutal, violent. Many had been shot at close range, others stabbed with swords or with throats cut wide open, their corpses collapsed in untidy heaps or with limbs spread-eagled as if they were marionettes with their strings rudely cut.

Tréville frowned. There was something wrong with what he was seeing.

Méndez had suspected that those opposed to the treaty would take any steps possible to prevent it from coming to fruition. Hence his convoluted journey. He had sailed up the coast to the Spanish Netherlands and crossed into France with his own escort and was expected to convene with Tréville's men at Lille. It was not to be a clandestine meeting; indeed, it was anticipated that they would possibly be under surveillance from those who were intent on destroying the treaty and that the Musketeers would embark upon an equally dangerous return journey, drawing some of the attention away from the Ambassador. If intercepted, they would be found to be carrying a document - but it would be a false one.

The security detail selected to accompany the Ambassador were not merely for appearances sake; they would have been selected for their prowess in defending the man. They were soldiers, just as the Musketeers were; finely honed, skilled military men who would not baulk in the face of an attack. Similarly, Tréville expected them to have been imbued with some instinct and a sense of urgency.

He stood in the middle of the carnage and surveyed it again, his unease growing. Not a single man had had the chance to draw a weapon. The number of pistols still clipped on belts did not equate to the number of fallen men and none was discarded on the ground, suggesting that others were still housed in the saddle holsters of the missing mounts. If the attackers had wanted to make off with additional weaponry and ammunition, why had they not stripped the remaining men of their armaments?

All swords were still sheathed, caught in the tangle of lifeless limbs.

These men had offered up no resistance at all, which could only suggest two things. Firstly, they had been attacked by a force much larger than their own, the perpetrators lying in wait in the trees and ranged along both sides of the road so that they could launch an extensive and simultaneous assault.

Or, secondly, they knew their attackers and had allowed them to get close – too close!

Tréville knew that, at some point, he had to inspect the inside of the carriage, to look upon the man who had been heading towards Paris in an attempt to avert war, but the Musketeer Captain was still held a fascinated captive by the incongruity of what littered the road.

"Several of these lyin' over the ground," Claude suddenly said at his side, holding out a hand. A number of coins lay in his palm.

Tréville picked them over and frowned.

"French?" he questioned? "Where abouts?"

"All over," the old soldier replied. "No two were lyin' together. They were dropped, random like."

"Careless!" Tréville noted, his suspicions aroused.

"My thoughts exactly," Claude said. "Far too careless."

"Like they were dropped on purpose?"

Claude merely raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Careless or convenient."

"They couldn't have been dropped by a local man using the road?" Tréville wondered.

Snorting, Claude turned the coins over in his hand. "The odd one maybe but they were too spread out to be explained by a hole in a pocket or purse. Besides, we might not think there's much 'ere but to a man labourin' in the country, 'e wouldn't just drop 'em 'an leave 'em there. Even if 'e did 'ave an 'ole in 'is pocket, I doubt they'd be scattered all about where I found 'em; unless 'e was well in 'is cups, of course. Then I could understand 'ow he'd miss 'em an' how he weaved 'is way along."

Both men stood in a thoughtful silence, absorbing the significance of what they had been discussing and hinting. Not for the first time did Tréville find himself appreciating the powers of observation of the older man and wishing that Béranger had accepted the rank of lieutenant when he had initially offered it to him following the events of the siege of the Îl de Ré two years earlier.

When his then second-in-command, Savatier, had turned traitor and was lost to the sea, Tréville had two names shortlisted as replacement. The first was Claude, a seasoned soldier with many years of experience. The other was a young man who had been commissioned for a little over two years but who had demonstrated on more than one occasion a strategic, logical mind, a flair for leadership and an awe-inspiring ability with a sword in his hand.

Yet for all that, Athos (for that was his name) did not have a belief in his own strengths. Haunted by personal demons and with a penchant for finding solace in a wine bottle, he maintained an infuriating silence about what troubled him, even refusing to divulge anything of importance to the two men who had worried at the defensive wall he had erected around himself. By sheer persistence, Aramis and Porthos had chipped away at the barricade and wormed their way into his confidence and Tréville had found it heart-warming to see the intense bond of brotherhood and friendship that had been the result.

So, Claude had refused the Captain and Athos had not been deemed ready – not yet – but Tréville had continued quietly to mentor him, entrusting more challenging missions to him and his friends and watching as they easily deferred to his leadership. Tréville knew, in time, that Athos would be ready to take on that promotion and ultimately, perhaps, take over from him in assuming the mantle of Captain. But that would not be for many years for Trèville was not prepared to step down in the near future.

Besides, Athos, Aramis and Porthos were his three men who were overdue and he was trying very hard not to begin worrying about their well-being. There were many things that could have delayed them; he had already listed those possible reasons in his head.

That was before he was confronted by such carnage as the slaughter of the Ambassador and his men.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Goodness, thank you so much for the response to the beginning of this story in your great comments. Yes, this is the start of another big adventure and I hope it contains lots of twists and turns to keep you guessing. Here, Treville needs to finish his investigation at the site of the massacre and there is nothing to alleviate his concerns about his men.**_

CHAPTER 2

Tréville shook his head to clear it and to focus but thoughts of the position of lieutenant still loomed large and he surreptitiously glanced at the old warrior by his side. A year or so on a lieutenant's pay would help the man's pension and he certainly deserved it but even as the thought crossed his mind, Tréville knew what Claude's answer would be. He would still decline, preferring to be 'one of the men'. It wouldn't hurt to try it though, would it?

After Ré, he had appointed Hervé Tasse as his second and the relationship had worked well enough. He had been wary regarding his choice for he had developed doubts about his ability to judge a man after the mistake he had made with Savatier, but the caution had been short-lived for Tasse was organised, dedicated and the men regarded him favourably. He may have lacked Claude's outgoing and outspoken personality and Athos' flair but he made up for it in his untiring commitment and willingness to lead by example. Sadly, he had been seriously injured during an altercation with lawbreakers on the route southwest of Paris some seven weeks earlier. He had recovered to some extent, but he would never be the same again and it necessitated his being invalided out of the regiment.

The position of lieutenant had therefore fallen vacant once more and Tréville did not know how much longer he could hold off from making a decision. Whilst it remained his prerogative to choose his second in command, he still had to observe the courtesy of making his recommendation to the King who was, after all, the ultimate authority over his own élite regiment.

"You're off in your own little world," Claude chastised him gently. They had served together for a long time before the inception of the musketeers and the older man enjoyed a few liberties not allowed the other men. It was an additional mark of Béranger's discretion that he never abused this privilege of familiarity.

"It was inappropriate, but I was distracted by the need to appoint my new second," Tréville admitted. "Someone who is observant, thinks things through; you know the sort of person I mean."

Claude harrumphed noisily and directed his attention to the coach. "Well you needn't think o' lookin' at me! We've had this conversation more times'n I care to remember."

"A man can't be faulted for trying, can he?"

"Of course he's at fault when he keeps tryin' where it'll come to no good. I've given you my answer more than once an' it won't change. I'm gettin' too old for that kind of bother an' I like doin' what I do. Besides, you know full well who you should be appointin' an you don't need me to remind you."

Tréville sighed. Claude had been supporting Athos since events on Ré. Whatever haunted the young man then still affected him now but the change in him for the better was markedly clear. He had developed even more as a soldier and, dare it be said, settled to some extent under the supervision and care of his two brothers-in-arms. Tréville had no qualms about his ability to fulfil the role and despite his aloof manner, time had shown that most of his colleagues both liked and respected him. There were only the continuing rumblings between him and another musketeer, Delacroix, that worried Tréville but it was far more the problem of the other man and was not a reason of any import as to why Athos should be held back. Athos had, for the main part, conducted himself well and not risen to the taunts and goading of his nemesis and it was obvious that if Delacroix allowed his animosity to fester any further, then it was his commission, paid for by his father, that was in danger of being revoked.

"The boy's more than proved his worth," Claude persisted. "I know he and the other two get themselves into all kinds of scrapes, but trouble tends to find' em rather than them goin' lookin' for it so why are you still holdin' back?"

Playing for time, Tréville removed his hat, squinted up at the sun, ran a hand through his thinning hair and put the hat on again as he wondered what kind of trouble might have found them now to delay their return. "I don't know, Claude, and that's the truth. You're right, many's the time he has demonstrated instinctive leadership and strategic decision making, but then I think back to that tormented young man who turned up at my door."

"Four years ago," Claude interrupted. "A lot's happened in that time."

"I know, and I have found out more about him since then but there is still so much that he keeps shut away from his friends, from me. Does he want or need the burden of that responsibility on top of everything else? With the demands I would be making of him, what kind of pressures would that put on his relationship with the other two? They ground him."

"An' they'll continue to do so. Give 'em all some credit. They all seem like boys to me, given my age, but when all's said an' done, they're men, fightin' men with experience and hard knocks that've shaped 'em an' will go on shapin' 'em, not least young Athos. Think on it, makin' him your lieutenant might do 'im even more good."

"I'll bear that in mind," Tréville said sombrely. "When did you get so wise, Claude?"

Claude frowned as if thinking. "Not sure as I am." He nodded towards a body that lay a little apart from the dead Spanish guards. "Take 'im, for instance. There's somethin' wrong with that'un but I can't place it."

They walked over to the corpse and Tréville squatted beside the man who had fallen on his face, limbs spread-eagled. The neat bullet hole in the back was obviously the cause of death but the Captain still rolled him over. The man's features were swarthy and more reminiscent of those in southern France. He even resembled the Spanish dead who lay around him. The clothing was French in style and ill-fitting. When Tréville grabbed the heel of a worn boot, it slid off the foot easily; it was far too big for the man who wore it.

After a battle, he had known men purloin boots from the dead when they needed them. They were spoils of war and the new owners were often heedless of the fit and would stuff them with rags or paper to stop them from slipping. There were even those who had nearly crippled themselves with footwear that was too small, but that discomfort was a small price to pay for dry feet when the soles of their own boots were holed beyond repair or parting company from the leather uppers.

"These aren't his clothes. Nothing fits," Tréville said. "It's all too big."

"Makes a person wonder why a man isn't wearin' 'is own clothes," Claude commented, an eyebrow raised questioningly.

"It does indeed," the Captain replied. "Of course, there may be a perfectly good explanation. He could have got very wet in the recent rain and 'borrowed' some dry clothes from a taller friend. Or he fell in a river."

Claude snorted. "You don't believe that for a minute."

"Naturally. So what do you think I might be believing then, Claude?"

"That with all them French coins lyin' on the ground and him in those badly fittin' French clothes, the French attackers were very careless," the older man reasoned.

Tréville looked at the westerly direction in which the supposed Frenchman lay and then wandered amongst the Spanish bodies lying to the east of him.

"Or very clever. Those Spanish guards did not have the time to offer any defence and yet one 'Frenchman' is left dead, shot in the back? I don't think he was so negligent as to turn his back on the men he was apparently fighting. Besides, these men still have their weapons on their belts. The shot that killed him did not come from them."

"So the attackers shoot one of their own and leave him behind to make it look even more like the French did it?" Claude speculated.

"That's what I'm thinking," Tréville agreed.

"Who do you reckon did it then? An' why do they want it to look as if we French are the ones responsible?"

"There are all sorts of people who don't want his important papers to reach Paris, Claude," Tréville patiently explained, yet wary as to how much he revealed. "The Ambassador was aware of the risk involved, that there were some of his countrymen who were not in favour of his intentions. They would be prepared to kill and would not hesitate to incriminate the French. Then there are some of the French counsel who are not supporting it either; one of them could have initiated this attack and created a double bluff."

"What's that mean?"

"They're French pretending to be Spaniards dressed up as Frenchmen," Tréville went on.

"That's too confusin'," Claude declared.

"You don't want to hear my other suggestion then," the Captain said.

"No point in 'oldin' back. You might as well tell me what's goin' on in that 'ead o' yours," complained Claude.

"There's another group, the English perhaps, who have intervened and want the Spanish to think that we are the ones responsible in order to break down Franco-Spanish relations even further."

Claude groaned. "Wish I'd never asked now."

Tréville glanced in the direction of the coach. "I'd better take a look at the Ambassador."

"I can't think of anything important enough to justify what they did to the poor man inside that coach. So he had some important papers on 'im! It would've been enough to finish 'im with one shot at close range or run 'im through with a sword. Not what they did to 'im though. I'm warnin' you now; it's not a pretty sight."

As the two men walked purposefully towards the open coach, Tréville felt the tension in the pit of his stomach metamorphosing into a physical pain. If Claude said it was bad, then it defied description and he steeled himself for what he was about to see.

He stopped abruptly. There was a man, his torso and head hanging out of the coach whilst his legs were pinned by a second body within the carriage. His wide, staring eyes signalled his dying terror. He was well-dressed, the cut of his clothing expensive and appropriate for the Spanish court; the cut over his heart and stained with blood cried out as to the cause of death.

"This man must be the Ambassador's personal secretary. Help me with him," the Captain instructed.

Together, they released the lower part of the man's body from beneath his master and lifted him down gently to lay him in the dirt. Tréville paused long enough to close the unseeing eyes before he turned back to the carriage.

Hardened as he was to the aftermath of bitter battles, the bile still rose in his throat and he had to swallow hard as he stared in disbelief at the horror awaiting him. He clung to the doorframe to remain standing as he studied the corpse of the Spanish Ambassador curled up on his front on the carriage floor. An odd posture for a man of his years but perhaps he had adopted a near-foetal position to protect himself. However, the blood spray that decorated the lavish interior of the coach and the many slash wounds across his back told a completely different story - that of a frenzied attack.

Tréville could not determine which one had been the fatal blow; that is if any of them had owned that responsibility. Reluctantly, the Captain climbed into the coach and squatted carefully, not wanting to smear his uniform with any body fluids if it could be helped. Tentatively, he reached out to touch the corpse, turning him more onto his side and leaning in so that he could examine the man's front. More wounds, delivered by a blade, were evident across the chest as blood pooled in a dark, congealing puddle beneath the Ambassador.

"He is still easy to move; the body has not stiffened yet," Tréville announced.

"He's not been dead too long then," Claude reasoned as he stood on the ground outside the coach. "What do you reckon? Three? Four hours?"

"Probably the lesser, which means he was on the road early this morning and probably spent the night at the next town or village along this route. We must assume his initial delay was due to the heavy rain and impassable roads."

"We couldn't have long missed those who did it then."

"Long enough," Tréville was already weighing up the usefulness in sending some of his men in pursuit and decided against it. The perpetrators would have ridden hard to escape the scene of their dreadful crime. If he sent a small group after them, they could ride for days and never catch up or, outnumbered by the attackers, they could be overwhelmed and counted as the next victims. Besides, he had the dead to take care of here and the Ambassador's corpse needed to be taken to Paris.

"There might be another reason for the delay," Claude began, his attention fixed upon something outside the coach. "The hub and several spokes of the front wheel this side have been replaced. That would've taken some time to repair."

"A journey beset by problems from the very start," the Captain muttered to himself, starting to go through the clothing of the dead man. "Now to see if you have any documents on you still."

Claude had bent down to look at something else beneath the carriage. "Might 'e 'ave been carrying whatever it was in a carved wooden box?" he called.

Tréville's brow furrowed at the unexpected question. "It's a possibility. Why?"

"There's a box busted open and in pieces in the dirt under the coach, that's why?"

Sighing, the Captain continued his rudimentary search of the body, but was not too disappointed when he found nothing. "Is the rest of the luggage intact?" he asked as Claude appeared in the open doorway and leaned against the frame.

"All still strapped on the back. Doesn't look as if it's been touched," came the answer.

"Then the papers have gone," Tréville said simply and he began to think of the ramifications of the missing Treaty. He looked down again at the body and saw the bloodstained fingers of the left hand resting on marks on the carriage floor, marks he had at first thought were the results of the wounds.

Gently, he moved the hand aside and studied the badly smeared lines. "Claude, what do you make of this?"

He felt the carriage move downwards with the additional weight as Claude climbed in beside him and peered at the lines as directed.

"Looks like letterin'," Claude said abruptly.

"Just what I was thinking."

"Writin' a message in 'is own blood? Some clue as to his killer?"

"Possibly," the Captain replied. "Except he died before he could finish it and, lucky for us, slumped across it before his killer saw it and wiped it clear. What can you make out?"

Tréville had had no problem deciphering the letters, crude as they were from the hand of a dying man. He just wanted confirmation that he was not seeing what he wanted to see and desperately wanted the older man to prove him wrong.

"R - I – C; that's what it looks like to me," Claude said eventually.

"To me too," the Captain said grimly.

"You reckon it's a name?"

"It's a possibility," Tréville agreed.

Claude was thoughtful. "Well, if he's an Ambassador," and he stopped to nod towards the dead man as he reflected aloud on what he knew so far, "then he's goin' to know some important people and seein' as how he's on French soil an' headin' to Paris, he must be 'ere to see those important people and happen somebody doesn't like what 'e's carryin' an' puts a stop to it. I doubt he'd be wastin' his dyin' breath writin' a message to the man he's goin' to see so we're agreed 'e must be leavin' a clue. There's only one important man in Paris that I know of whose name starts with those same letters." Claude studied his commanding officer carefully. "I'm willin' to stand corrected."

"And I'd love to correct you," the Captain began, "but I'm afraid I can't."

For he had had the very same thought. Those letters began the surname of France's most powerful man for he was the adviser to the King himself: Armand Jean du Plessis, better known as Cardinal Richelieu and the country's first minister.

Why would the man integral to the drawing up of the Treaty seek its destruction? It did not make sense.

No, there had to be another, better explanation. Despite his unease, it just remained for Tréville to find out what that explanation was and he knew that it would be no easy task!


	3. Chapter 3

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Many, many thanks for all the positive feedback you have given to the two chapters so far in this story. I hope you will enjoy this one too. It has been checked and if any errors remain, they are my fault. The Inseparables are still missing. Will we learn any more of them in this chapter? You may not like me in this but, as readers, you will discover things at the same time as the Captain!**_

CHAPTER 3

Tréville looked back at his men who had sat patiently waiting on horseback whilst he walked the scene of the massacre with Claude and formed his own deductions. That done, he quickly went into action and issued a string of instructions.

"Voclain!" he called and waited for the Musketeer to come to him. "Take three men and go back to the last town we passed through. We need to hire two horses that could pull the carriage. Take this money," and he pulled his own purse from an inside pocket and handed it over. "There should be enough there. If they have none fit for purpose, then you had better get us a cart and horses. Not quite the way the Ambassador and his secretary probably expected to arrive in Paris, but we will have to use any means available to us. Tell the locals they will get everything back."

"Sir!" Voclain snapped to attention, turned on his heels and strode away, yelling for three of his comrades to join him.

Tréville summoned another. "Sebastien."

The soldier who had been left guarding the site when Claude rode back to make his report had barely moved from the position he was in as the patrol approached. He knew better than to disrupt or potentially destroy clues and he knew his Captain would want to see things for himself. He had, however, been fully attentive as Tréville studied the area.

"Captain?" He still refused to move until Tréville beckoned him over.

"Thank you for maintaining a guard." The Musketeer merely nodded in acknowledgement. "Now I need you and a couple of others to scout along the road and through the trees to find some open ground where the escort can be laid to rest. I do not intend transporting all the bodies to Paris. When you've found a suitable spot, we will all act as burial detail and get these men in the ground as soon as possible. They have been exposed to the sun long enough."

He watched as some men rode off to fulfil tasks and others dismounted to begin theirs. Another thought struck him.

"Perrin, Fabre, set to and make some markers for when we are ready." Two more men peeled off to do as instructed.

"Claude, walk with me once more. Just in case we missed anything the first time."

He did not talk any more to the older man and Béranger fell in beside him, respectful of his need for silence. His thoughts were in turmoil as he went over again in his mind all that he knew so far. The most disturbing aspect was the partial message written by the Ambassador in his own blood, those three letters.

Was Tréville trying to read too much into the lettering, wanting to make it fit Richelieu? What else might it mean? Was it something in Spanish that he did not understand for his knowledge of the language was next to nothing. He wished that Aramis had been with him for, with the young man being fluent in the language, he could have easily asked his questions without feeling that he was grasping at air.

But Aramis was not with him. He was with Athos and Porthos on another route to Paris. It was possible, of course, that the three had arrived back at the garrison during Tréville's absence and that they were sitting at their usual table, sipping a red wine and awaiting his return to make their report and hand the document to him, the false document that had been entrusted to their keeping. They had known, from the outset, that they were being used as some kind of decoy and had accepted the fact with a raised eyebrow from Athos, a sideways glance from Porthos and a slight twitch at the corner of Aramis' mouth but without a question from any of them.

He had impressed upon them the importance of the mission even as he considered the ridiculousness of the venture. But it was not his plan, none of it. Any suggestions he made had been rapidly dismissed by the man behind the Treaty, the man behind _all_ the arrangements.

That man was Cardinal Richelieu.

Even now, as Tréville made his careful way amongst the dead, all his doubts and reservations rose to the fore once more and he felt physically sick. Why were Musketeers not assigned to join the Ambassador's escort to increase numbers and his protection if he were carrying the precious Treaty and there were serious fears that it might fall into the wrong hands? What purpose were his three men really serving by taking another route with a false document? If they were under surveillance in Lille, would anyone really accept the notion of a subterfuge, that they might be carrying the real document and consider they were a minor force worth intercepting? Who would seriously know of the meeting in Lille between the Ambassador and the Musketeers? Méndez would have had to have been followed from Spain or there had been a significant breach of intelligence at the Spanish court. Was it feasible that a Spanish contingent large enough to commit this atrocity with such ease could have crossed France unnoticed? They had to have followed the Ambassador's nautical route.

There was an alternative.

That the Ambassador had not been murdered by his own countrymen, that Tréville was correct in his suggestion of the double bluff. It could have been a French force that was responsible. A large enough group of apparent French soldiers on the move would not arouse suspicion but who could be behind such a plan? Who would benefit? Who would know the details? Although the French Council had been apprised of the details of the Treaty, negotiations had been the work of Richelieu in conjunction with the King and Méndez. The details of the ratification from Spain and the safe transport of the document bearing Phillip's signature had been agreed behind closed doors between the same three men and with Tréville in attendance.

Any breach of security had to have come from Méndez' camp or Richelieu's office for Tréville knew that he had not divulged anything beyond the absolutely necessary. Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been furnished with just enough information for them to understand the gravity of their mission. Even the men who rode with him today knew nothing and Claude was the only one who knew about some important documents that were now missing. Tréville had remained very circumspect in how much he revealed.

No-one else within the regiment knew of his men's destination. In fact, he had instructed them to prepare for a mission of several days and had waited until they were ready before they assembled in his office for any instructions. The few scant details he had written down were on a small piece of paper that he had kept about his person since they were finalised in a meeting with the Cardinal and the King. He had then passed them directly to Athos and talked his men through what was expected of them. Wishing them well in their task, he had accompanied them down the stairs to where their horses stood waiting. Shaking each of the men by the hand and unnecessarily warning them to take care of themselves, he watched them ride out under the arch and into the Paris streets. They had not had a chance to speak to anyone and the only written evidence of their task was carried by one of them. There had been _no_ leak of information from his garrison.

He could not get those three letters out of his mind. Was Méndez accusing the French Cardinal of the ultimate treachery because he definitely knew of Richelieu's involvement or was it a mere suspicion? Tréville knew of several occasions where the Cardinal had not acted as a man of God and had indulged in some underhand shenanigans and politicking, justifying lies and violence by declaring that it was all in the best interests of France. Had he, Tréville, not lost twenty of his own men at Savoy for 'convenience' and the protection of a French spy at the Duke's court - namely his wife, Louis' own sister? Aramis had been the only survivor of that massacre. Suffering from a severe head injury, it had taken weeks of convalescence to aid his recovery and help him come to terms with the loss of so many brothers and the apparent desertion of his friend, Marsac, the only other one to live.

Tréville knew enough of Richelieu's actions never to trust the man and he had not trusted him from the moment these negotiations began, and he certainly did not trust the arrangements surrounding the document. How could he begin to find the truth for it undoubtedly fell to him to investigate the matter? There would be no approaching the King for he relied upon Richelieu far too heavily and believed in the man and his advice without question.

The day wore on and it was late afternoon before the bulk of the dead had been laid to rest and words swiftly said to help them on their spiritual way. Musketeers had returned with two well-muscled horses suitable for pulling the carriage whilst its grisly contents had been laid out deferentially within, limbs straightened before they stiffened. A covering was found for each man in one of the luggage trunks secured to the back of the carriage.

The journey was long, slow and sombre and it was dark well before they re-entered the main yard of the garrison. The mood of those returning was quickly communicated to their colleagues and many appeared to relieve the men of the burden of attending to their mounts. Serge, the old cook, had hot food ready and waiting for them as soon as they washed the dust of the road from their hands and faces.

The Captain gave further orders for the removal of the bodies to a room off the infirmary as his eyes scanned the yard and the men for any sign of the trio of friends.

"They're not back," a voice said from behind him.

Turning on his heel, he smiled weakly at the wizened features of the old soldier-turned-cook. "I had hoped they would be, Serge, but I think I knew all along I would not see them here."

"I'm guessin' you can't talk about it but considerin' you've just got back with two corpses, I'm worryin' if our three boys are in danger, more than usual that is."

Tréville hesitated before answering but knew that the older man deserved some truth. He took a deep breath as he prepared to put his fears into words. "I thought it was more important than dangerous, Serge, but given today's events, as each day – no, as each hour - passes and they are not back, the danger to them becomes very real."

Serge nodded as he considered what he had been told. "I thank you for your honesty. A message come for you from the palace about mid-afternoon. One of the men put it on your desk. You go an' read it an' I'll bring you up some food an' wine."

Muttering his thanks, Tréville felt that he was dragging his weary body up the stairs to his office. Standing behind his desk, he broke the seal on the missive and read it. Its command was simple. It did not matter what time he returned, he was expected to make his report to the Cardinal in person who would then make the decision to inform His Majesty immediately or wait until the morning.

Sighing, Tréville sank into his chair just as a knock at the door announced the arrival of Serge with a tray of food. He reached for the wine and poured himself a full cup as the tray was set before him.

"I have to go to see the Cardinal," he announced.

"Not straight away, you don't," Serge objected. "You sit there, eat and drink an' I'll have hot water sent up. You've time to take a breath an' freshen up. It won't change anythin' for those two dead people in our infirmary."

Tréville could not suppress a wry smile. He might be the commanding officer but between Claude and Serge, both men he had known and served with for years, they covered his back and looked out for him. They were not averse to taking liberties and giving him a well-meant order and he recognised the concern behind this one. It was not often that he rode for any duration beyond the city walls these days and his body was complaining from the demands he had made of it in the past twelve hours.

"Very well. I shall eat, you send the hot water and have two men ready to ride escort with me. Not men who have been in the saddle today," he added.

Many was the time when he rode alone to the palace, but it was not recommended after dark for the streets in some areas were far from safe. He was obviously a soldier, armed and more than capable of looking after himself but there were desperate men driven to desperate measures in the city and all they would see was a well-dressed man on a good animal. To them, it meant money and alone he presented a vulnerable target for a gang.

By the time Tréville arrived at the palace, his suspicions, doubts and frustrations had festered during the ride and he was struggling to control his temper at the prospect of meeting the Cardinal. He knew he would have to report the death of the Ambassador at the earliest opportunity and he had fully intended going to the Louvre that evening, but he resented the Cardinal dictating his movements.

Striding through the corridors, he approached the First Minister's office. The guards outside recognised him on sight, knocked on the door and opened it immediately to admit him. Richelieu was waiting and looked up at the newcomer.

"It's about time you arrived. Well?" he demanded.

"It's nice to see you too," Tréville countered sarcastically.

Richelieu sat back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. "Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we, Tréville? What news do you have?"

"It's not good," the Captain announced. "The Ambassador has been murdered."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Thank you once again for all the wonderful comments on the previous chapter. Is Treville any closer to finding out what has delayed his men?**_

CHAPTER 4

Captain Tréville's late evening meeting with the Cardinal was short and terse and, as the First Minister made the decision not to inform the King until the following morning, nothing was achieved and no arrangements were made about the bodies so, in the light of a new day, the Musketeer officer was an angry man. In fact, it would be more appropriate to say that he was exceedingly angry and no-one who encountered him as he strode purposefully through the palace corridors would dare to think otherwise. It was incumbent upon those foolish enough to be using the same hallways at the same time to leap out of his path when it was abundantly clear that he was intent upon walking _through_ them rather than wasting time circumnavigating them.

With not a hair out of place, his moustache and goatee beard newly trimmed, the gleaming brown leather of his uniform and the swing of the heavy woollen cape draped over one shoulder, he cut an impressive figure. One hand on the hilt of his rapier steadied it as he moved swiftly, his booted feet sounding on the marble floors.

He was a familiar sight at the Louvre with his near daily meetings with the King and Cardinal. This morning, however, there was something about his expression and determination that signalled a barely suppressed fury and urgency. Even the musketeers who had drawn palace duty that day recognised his wrath and were alert, snapping cleanly to attention when he passed them. Perhaps they had been attuned to his deteriorating mood before they even left the garrison.

The footmen positioned outside the library where the King was waiting to receive him moved hastily to open the doors as they sensed that Tréville would not be delayed by the ornately decorated panels and was more likely to storm through them.

He barely heard the doors closing behind him as he bowed formally to the monarch, straightened and strode forward to confront Cardinal Richelieu after their inconclusive meeting of the previous evening. He was standing to one side of the King who sat at a desk, truculently signing papers that his Minister set before him and it was clear from the tension in the air that Louis had been informed of Méndez' death.

"Ah, Tréville, we have been waiting for you. It seems you have upset my dear Cardinal again with your news of the Ambassador. Pray, why do you do it with such alarming regularity?" Louis, glad of the excuse to set aside the papers, had adopted a benign smile but Tréville was painfully aware that behind the pleasant façade, there was an intentionally barbed slight, especially when his voice laid emphasis on ' _again_ ' and ' _alarming regularity'_. The ludicrous implication was that the present predicament – a dead Ambassador and missing Treaty - was all Tréville's fault, that the Spanish deaths were his responsibility and his alone. In that instant, he knew he had lost his advantage, whatever he had hoped that to be, and wondered what version of events had been planted in the royal ear. It did not help that Richelieu was standing there sneering at the officer.

"Your Majesty, I …" Tréville began, consciously controlling the tone in his voice for his ire was not to be directed at the King himself, although Louis did have a part in the unfolding debacle, primarily because he was usually so easily swayed by the Cardinal's rhetoric.

"Not only do we have a potentially explosive situation with the death of a Spanish Ambassador on French soil, but your men are inexcusably late. I thought the men on this mission were supposed to be your best!" Richelieu interrupted contemptuously.

Tréville rounded on him, ready to defend his men. "You asked for my best and that's who you got. If I recall, you even asked for them by name."

"Well, if they're your best, I dread to think of the standard of the rest of the regiment! They should have been back by now. It is sheer incompetence. Knowing their history, they have probably been distracted by wine, women, a card game, a fight or the lot put together! If I find that this is the case, they can take time to reconsider their actions in the Châtelet. Better still, their heads can roll, such was the importance and secrecy of this mission. Surely you impressed that upon them?"

Tréville's hands clenched into tight fists and he knew his palms would bear the imprint of his nails for some time.

"You do my men and me a gross injustice," he ground out. "They are now three days overdue and they knew full well the significance of their role in the subterfuge. They would not have allowed anything to divert them. I would also point out that you insult the King's regiment with your comments."

Louis seemed to realise the implication behind Richelieu's words and thought that he ought to display some appropriate reaction to the effrontery.

"Now, now, Cardinal, I cannot have you saying such things about the men of my regiment. There are none to compare with the King's Musketeers. Besides, I did not see you recommending any of your Red Guard for this vital undertaking. And why is that?" Before the Cardinal could offer a reply, Louis went on regardless. "I'll tell you why. They simply are not up to the task."

He beamed conspiratorially at Tréville who was relieved that the disagreement was turning back in his favour, albeit temporarily.

"Of course not, Your Majesty," and Richelieu dipped his head in deference, "and I apologise but I was merely saying that …"

Now it was Tréville's turn to interrupt. "If my men are delayed, it is because something has happened in order to delay them. At least one of them would have attempted to get back to Paris. If your foolish enterprise has lost me my three best men …"

His voice trailed off for he dared not think of the consequences.

"Surely any plan designed to maintain peace between France and Spain can hardly be called 'foolish'," the King admonished.

"Forgive me, Sire. That was unfortunate wording on my part but with events taking the turn that they have, it stems from a deep concern for my men," Tréville quickly responded. It would not do to alienate Louis at this juncture, but he could have done without having to think about the sensitivity of his wording so that he did not upset anyone when all he really wanted to do was vent his anger where it was justified – namely at Richelieu.

Despite Richelieu's assurances before the monarch and in private, Tréville could not dispel the feelings that he had regarding the arrangements for the current mission and continued to believe that the Cardinal had not told him everything. The last thing he wanted was another Savoy. Granted only three men were involved on this occasion but one of them – Aramis - was the only Savoy survivor and such was the value, loyalty and experience of the trio that none of them deserved to be treated as expendable pawns in some other person's game.

"Tell me again about arrangements for the Spanish Ambassador's journey from the north," Tréville insisted, even though he had heard the details of the arrangement several times over.

Richelieu gave a loud sigh of frustration. "Must we go over old ground again?"

"Humour me," the Captain insisted. "I want to see if there is anything we may have missed."

"I hardly think so," the Cardinal began, but then he caught sight of the soldier's furious expression, "But if it keeps you happy …" and he waived a hand airily.

They painstakingly went through the arrangements again, but it changed nothing and added nothing new.

"And who knew of this arrangement?" Tréville persisted.

"Other than myself, there is His Majesty, you, your three men because they rode north to meet the Spanish Ambassador, the Ambassador himself and anybody he saw fit to include in the proceedings. Travel arrangements and procuring a ship might have led to the leaking of information on his side," Richelieu repeated.

"Did he have need to mention the involvement of my men?" Tréville was thinking aloud, exploring different possibilities.

"I cannot see any reason for the necessity, although that does not discount it happening, of course."

"I certainly have not said anything of this enterprise other than to my three men, so there has been no divulging of details from the garrison," Tréville said pointedly.

Richelieu bristled at the implied accusation. "Well you need not think anything has come from my office. Your men were probably careless, out carousing before they left and spoke unguardedly in a crowded place."

It was Tréville's turn to take offence and he recounted the departure of the three men, how he had maintained a high level of secrecy around the mission and then he added, "So they would deliberately endanger themselves by talking publicly about a sensitive mission? Oh yes, I can imagine them doing that. We can forget about all the 'sensitive missions' with which they have been entrusted and successfully completed in recent years. Besides, how many Spanish spies do you think hang about Paris taverns just in case they come across the odd group of musketeers talking about things they shouldn't?"

The King gave a gleeful chuckle. "Put like that, it does make your suggestion seem a little unlikely, doesn't it, Cardinal?"

Richelieu's cheek muscles twitched as he controlled his temper. His tone was icy when next he spoke. "Well, details have been leaked from somewhere for the Ambassador to end up dead."

"That," Tréville said through gritted teeth, "is painfully obvious."

"Indeed, Your Majesty, and at the risk of repeating ourselves, those Musketeers are now overdue and the Ambassador has been murdered," Richelieu patiently explained as though talking to a child.

Louis' face fell at the reminder. "Who could have done such a terrible deed on French soil?"

"That will be hard to determine," Tréville replied, "given the time that has been lost."

"Nonsense," Richelieu was scathing. "From what you have said about the French coins and the poorly dressed dead man, it is obvious that it is a Spanish plot intent upon destroying the treaty. Thank goodness that we have been through the negotiation stage and knew that the Treaty was accepted by the Spanish King."

"Philip is as committed to maintaining peace as I am for the sake of his sister, my dear wife," Louis mused.

"We know the King is of a like mind," Richelieu agreed, "but we also know that Spanish power was already on the decline when he came to the throne eight years ago and we have seen a further weakening of it since then. There are those of his nobles who would manipulate him, force him to unwanted action to regain supremacy. To some he is but a pawn."

"Be careful, Cardinal. That is my brother-in-law of whom you speak," Louis warned.

Richelieu bowed. "Granted, Sire. I am only making clear the views of some of his own countrymen."

"Apart from killing one of their own, what have they achieved?" Tréville wondered aloud. "Philip had agreed the Treaty and a replacement document can be drawn up. At best, it means a delay in the signing."

"And at worst, it could lead to a complete breakdown of negotiations. With the Ambassador murdered whilst in France, those responsible can slip back across the border into the Spanish Netherlands – for I am sure they are long gone – and report that the killing was done as a French act against the Treaty. They will spread alarm and anger and the Treaty will come to nought. Méndez was the voice of reason. There are at least three men vying for the position to wield such influence whose views are in stark opposition to him and the King."

"Do you have their names?" Tréville asked, his interest sparked.

"Yes, in my office, but those men are well beyond our reach," Richelieu retorted. "They are not the only ones either."

"That may be so, but I am sure you appreciate that there is value in knowing the names of those who would work against us. I would like to see those names."

Richelieu scowled at him but reluctantly nodded that he would accede to the Captain's request.

"We must hope that it is merely a matter of awaiting a new Ambassador to arrive with a replacement document," Tréville continued. "We have to advise the Spanish to increase security and offer more of our own once they have crossed the border into France."

Richelieu hesitated. "That may not be necessary."

"What do you mean?" Tréville demanded, immediately aware of the change that had come over the Cardinal.

"They have not got their hands on or destroyed the real document."

"I do not understand. Explain yourself, Cardinal." Even Louis was confused.

Richelieu looked pleased with himself. "The Ambassador was not carrying the Treaty. He had one that apparently turned down all that was offered by France, declaring that it was not enough."

"That man died for nothing!" the Captain spat out.

The Cardinal was dismissive. "With Mendéz convinced there was a faction against the peace treaty, he had his suspicions as to the identity of those responsible but no proof and wanted to draw them out. Despite his plans for safe conduct to Paris, he was obviously betrayed. When he was here, he and I discussed measures for the safe arrival of the document and it was his idea that he should carry a fake document that decried any possibility of the treaty."

"And he was still killed?" Tréville was incredulous.

"He said he never expected to get back here safely, such was the resourcefulness of the opposition. He may have been slain to procure the document or, when they realised that they had a fake or a misdirection, they killed him out of spite and because they could not afford to leave any witnesses."

"The Ambassador was a brave man," Louis sank back in his chair in realisation of the man's self-sacrifice.

"That he was, Sire."

Tréville's mind was racing. "Then where is the real Treaty?"

Richelieu turned slowly to face him. "Come, Captain, surely you have realised by now. Your men have the real document. The Ambassador passed it to them when they met him near the border. On their shoulders rests the whole future of a Franco-Spanish settlement."

The pit of Tréville's stomach plummeted and the all-too familiar feeling of nausea returned as he reached that unsettling conclusion moments before Richelieu's announcement.

"Yes," the Captain said grimly, "and right now Athos, Aramis and Porthos are missing."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Dear all, thank you so much for the response to the last chapter.**_

 _ **My intention, on finishing 'Redemption' and submitting my other piece into the competition, was to write many chapters so that I could update more regularly over the summer and not keep you 'dangling', but plans do not always come to fruition and I ought to explain my erratic updating of the new story.**_

 _ **My Mother fell ill in mid-June and was admitted to hospital. We nearly lost her six weeks ago and she underwent major surgery eleven days ago which, at 92, was no mean feat. She was moved from an acute hospital back to our local cottage hospital last Sunday but, on Monday, she deteriorated further. All she wanted to do was return home, so wheels were set in motion, equipment delivered and this afternoon her wish was granted - we have brought her home for palliative care. I sit beside her typing this as she sleeps. It has been a blessing that we are in the summer holidays so that I have been able to be with her and the rest of the family but when I briefly returned to my own home (a three-hour drive away) two weeks ago, it was to find a flooded bathroom and my kitchen ceiling on the kitchen floor! Now, along with everything else that is going on, I must deal with insurance companies, structural engineers, emptying out house contents and awaiting men to rip out carpets and the kitchen units. We haven't got as far as seeing if appliances still work!**_

 _ **Anyway, in this chapter, we discover a little of the danger in which our heroes find themselves. Any errors are mine and I apologise. Chapter 6 will be up as soon as I can manage it, promise!**_

CHAPTER 5

I

Cardinal Richelieu was back at his desk in the cavernous room that he used as his main office and where he received visitors. Stark and cold in décor, as befitting the man who used it, the room was deliberately intimidating, but he did not seem to notice. A quill was held poised over a document, but he was neither writing nor reading. Instead, his mind was racing as to ways he could delay furnishing the Musketeer Captain with the names of those Spaniards against the Treaty. Naturally he knew who the men were; he did not have to look at paperwork to remind himself of their identities, but he was not about to admit that to the King or Captain for it did not suit his purpose just yet. The information he was receiving at regular intervals from his spies in Spain and forwarded via a network of trusted intelligencers across France was both interesting and important and he was beginning to scheme as to how the findings could best be used.

As he sat there reflecting on all manner of possibilities, there was a slight creak as a door to his right slowly opened and the rustle of skirts announced the arrival of a female visitor.

"You're late!" he snapped without even looking in her direction.

"And you are lucky that I am not an assassin here to kill you." The voice that answered was sultry, teasing and cultured.

"That is unfortunate," he shrugged. "I assumed that one of the reasons why I employed you was for your ability as an assassin. I have been seriously misled. Besides, my dear, do not make the mistake of underestimating me."

It was then that she saw the small pistol held in his lap and trained on her from the moment she opened the began to open the door.

"Oh I would never underestimate you, Cardinal," she purred and moved closer in a swish of dark green satin that heightened the startling emerald of her eyes. Dark hair curled luxuriously around her face and over the pale porcelain of her skin.

"I presume you are here now because you have some news for me?" The Cardinal, unmoved by her stunning beauty, maintained a haughty coldness in her presence.

"I have _some_ news, yes," she sighed regretfully, only too aware that he was not going to be happy with what she had to impart.

Richelieu frowned. "From that, I take it that the task assigned to you has not yet been fulfilled."

Averting her eyes and letting her long fingers trail lightly across the desk's surface, Milady de Winter shrugged. "By now it might be, but the messenger was delayed so it is not the most up-to-date."

"There does seem to be a rush of unfortunate delays at present." Richelieu's voice dripped with sarcasm as he referred to the murdered Ambassador and missing Musketeers in addition to the messenger.

Milady pursed her lips in disgust as an unpleasant memory came to mind. "Given the smell of stale ale on his breath when he eventually reached me, I would say there was nothing unfortunate about it. He, sadly, did not appreciate the importance of the message he was carrying and then had the audacity to presume that I was part of the payment."

Richelieu managed a sardonic grin. "I trust that he will not make the same mistake again?"

A dangerous gleam appeared in her eyes. "He will not make _any_ sort of mistake again," she declared.

"He has been dealt with, I take it?" The messenger was an unnecessary link to the unfolding events.

"He met with such a bizarre accident," she feigned an innocence. "Somehow, his head came into contact with a piece of brick and, senseless, he fell on a sharp point before carelessly toppling into the Seine."

"A bizarre accident indeed; no doubt you had some influence in it?" He knew full well that she was involved; he employed her for her skills to dispose of those who were a dangerous threat to his plans, an encumbrance or annoyance or merely to eradicate those who had served their purpose. Her methods were many and varied, ranging from the sly and discreet to the macabre and ingenious.

She did not answer.

"So, your news?" He tried to draw her back to his main inquiry and concern. "Have your men intercepted the Musketeers or not?"

Suddenly, she became more business-like. "There has been a sighting of them, but they have taken refuge in the Abbey at Saint Denis a few leagues north of the city."

Richelieu's facial muscles twitched in his displeasure. If the Musketeers had sought sanctuary in a religious house, they had inadvertently signed the death warrant of many more innocent people for there were to be none who could bear witness to what was happening. He needed to be reassured that the men Milady had employed knew their task. "You did give your men clear instructions?"

"Of course I did!" she huffed, offended that he should express any doubt.

He arched an eyebrow in expectation of her explanation.

She sighed and repeated the order she had been given and subsequently passed on to the men she had bought with the Cardinal's coin. "The three Musketeers are to be intercepted; any documentation they are carrying is to be removed from them and brought straight to me."

"And?"

She took a deep breath. "There are to be no survivors and their bodies are to disappear without a trace."

"Ensure that it happens," Richelieu instructed her again.

Bristling at the implication that she would leave an assignment incomplete, she was angrily defensive. "Naturally!"

There was no hesitation on her part, not since the Cardinal had divulged to her the names of Tréville's men: Aramis, Porthos and Athos. Whilst the former two meant nothing to her, at the mention of the third, her heart had skipped a beat. She had known an Athos four years before, a young and attractive Comte with whom she had had a whirlwind, passionate courtship before they married. Cardinal Richelieu might know her as Milady de Winter, but she was Ann, Comtesse de la Fère, and she was keen for the First Minister to remain in ignorance as to her real identity.

But the romantic, heady dream ended abruptly when she killed her husband's younger brother. She had attempted to explain her actions but, as the one given responsibility for meting out justice on the large Pinon estate, the heart-broken and grieving Comte had sentenced her to death and ridden off, unable to watch her hang. Using her wiles to seduce her executioner, she escaped to start life afresh with a new identity and a new role as an agent of the Cardinal.

Consumed by a desire to know for sure, she had secreted herself in a small room upon the first floor of the palace which enabled her to watch the corridor heading towards the King's receiving room; from there, she could spy upon the Musketeers accompanying their Captain. Prepared to spend several days on her vigil, she could not believe it when, on the very first day, she saw her husband walking on Tréville's right. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. If it were at all possible, he was even more handsome than the day she married him. Events then and his subsequent experiences as a soldier had given him an air of gravitas whilst his noble bearing was unmistakable, finely honed by his military life and enhanced by the leathers and the flowing blue cape.

Her momentary pang of regret for what might have been was quickly dispelled by an overwhelming hatred. Subconsciously, her fingers played with the thick ribbon at her neck that concealed the mark of the hangman's noose, forever burned into her neck like a brand announcing her heinous misdemeanour. For her, her actions were clear. Whatever else happened, her beloved husband had to die, and she was prepared to add a full purse of her own to the original blood money as a reward for the man who could prove that he had taken the life of the former Comte.

The Cardinal was speaking to her. "What of the men you have employed? Can they be trusted?"

She nodded. "Certainly. Enough to do the job they have been given."

"They have the relevant skills?"

"All the necessary ones. They are soldiers, deserters and the scum of the street; the best of the cutthroats." She reeled off their accomplishments as though they were of the highest merit.

"And how many of them are there?"

"Twelve," she responded and, when she saw the Cardinal's expression change to one of disdain, she quickly defended herself. "Sufficient numbers were needed to ensure that they could be overwhelmed."

"Did you have to have as many as that to overpower three men? You are costing me a fortune," his displeasure was evident.

"You said they were Tréville's best and you made it clear that you did not want a job half done," she persisted.

Richelieu's hand shot out and grabbed her wrist hard, causing her to wince both in surprise and with the pain his tight grip induced. "Then you had better ensure that they earn their wage and do their job properly. The Musketeers must _not_ return to Paris with that documentation."

Richelieu's glare was dangerous and she knew that he was not a man to be trifled with; to fail him in any manner would guarantee far-reaching repercussions.

The Musketeers hiding in the Abbey must die.

II

Tréville rode into the yard and Jacques, one of the stable boys, reappeared from nowhere to hold the horse's head as the Captain dismounted. The officer patted the faithful animal's neck in absent-minded affection as Claude almost ran to meet him. The sight was incongruous. Claude usually moved at one pace – not too slow but not hurried unless there was a need for urgency. For one heart-stopping moment, he thought there was some news on the missing men.

"Are they back?" he dared hope to hear something good at last. He barely registered the horse being led away.

"No," Claude shook his head, his expression apologetic, "but you do have a visitor waitin' in your office."

"Who's that?" Tréville was not expecting anybody as far as he could recall.

"A young monk."

Tréville frowned. "Did he say why he's here?"

"All he'd say was that he 'ad an important message an' had to see you, only you. He knew your name. Said 'e wasn't goin' anywhere until 'e'd delivered it, said 'e'd given 'is word."

"Given his word to whom?" Again that twinge of hope, that leap of anticipation.

"Now 'e wasn't goin' to tell me, was 'e? I'm not Captain 'ere."

Tréville looked up at the balcony that ran along the outer wall of his office as if, magically, he could see the young man who waited within and then he took the stairs two at a time, his impatience getting the better of him.

He threw open the door to his office, the noise startling its sole occupant, who leaped to his feet in alarm. The monk was very young-looking, his face fresh and smooth which suggested that he had no need to shave. He was also short, barely reaching Tréville's shoulder. The Captain was not overly tall himself and standing to berate his _Inseparables_ (his nickname for the missing trio) for their latest accidental misdemeanour often created a comical image. As he launched his tirade, he had to look up, albeit slightly, for the three were six feet tall and more. He would have given anything to have them in front of him right at that moment. They could have challenged the entire Red Guard to illegal duels and he would not have minded.

"I am sorry for keeping you waiting, Brother …?" and his voice trailed off as he paused for the monk to identify himself. He moved swiftly to his chair behind the desk and extended a hand to the religious man.

"Laurence, Brother Laurence, from the Abbey at Saint Denis, though I am yet a novice. I do not take my full vows for another year," and he reached across the desk to clasp the proffered hand in a firm grip. He may look as if a gust of wind would take him off his feet, but the handshake demonstrated an underlying physical strength.

Tréville indicated the chair and the young man resumed his seat. "Can I get you anything?" He had already seen an empty plate and cup on the far side of his desk.

"No, thank you," Brother Laurence said hastily. "I have had refreshments. Your man, Serge, has taken care of me."

Tréville nodded his approval. "Then how may I help you? Another of my men said you had a message for me. I presume from your insistence upon waiting for me that it is important?"

The young novice's face darkened with worry and he fumbled in a sack bag he had placed on the floor by his side. He pulled out something wrapped in cloth and stretched across the desk to set it down immediately before the Captain.

"He gave me this to pass to you so that you know that what I am telling you is the truth," he explained, nervously biting at his lower lip.

"He?" Tréville asked. A feeling of dread spread through him as he unwrapped the item and stared at it.

"He said that you would know it and that he would not remove it lightly. You would know it came from him," the young man babbled on, his words barely registering with the Captain.

It was a dark slate-coloured pauldron with the fleur de lis etched finely into the leather, its outline marred by the scars of battle. He ran his fingers lightly over the patterning, feeling the crustiness of something that should not be there in the ornate indentations. He stared at his fingertips, recognising the disturbed blackened flakes for what they were. Dried blood and far too much of it was encrusted on the Musketeer insignia.

He had no problem recognising the pauldron either. Had he not chosen the leather personally, spoken to the craftsman as to its design and then bent to strap the finished article on the right shoulder of the kneeling soldier when he at last received his hard-earned commission from the King?

It belonged to Athos.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Dear all, thanks for all the lovely comments on the last chapter. More than that, I cannot thank you enough for your words of comfort and support on my personal situation, both in the comments section and the private messages. They have meant a lot. At present, we soldier on! (No pun intended!)**_

 _ **A slightly longer chapter 6 to make up for your wait. This is divided into four parts as things begin to happen and quickly and the concern for the missing trio escalates! I apologise in advance for any careless errors I might have allowed to slip through.**_

CHAPTER 6

I

Tréville studied the bloody pauldron that he clutched in his hands and said a little more brusquely than he intended, "How did you say you came you by this?"

Laurence eyed the military man nervously. Tréville could be a formidable man at the best of times but he, his world and the environs of the garrison were far removed from anything the novice had encountered before. He anxiously began his tale but had neither the organisation or succinctness demanded of giving a report to an officer. "As I said, he gave it to me. He said you would know things were serious if he dared to part with this."

Tréville sighed inwardly as his mind raced in considering the questions he needed to ask to elicit the valuable information he required and that he believed the young man held. He softened his approach. "And _he_ gave you a name?"

"Athos," Laurence responded. "He said his name was Athos."

"So what is the serious nature of the message? Tell me! Where is he?" Eager to know, Tréville's commanding tone was in danger of once more coming to the fore until he remembered and added, "Please."

Encouraged, Laurence divulged another precious nugget of information. "They are hiding in a cave."

"They?" Holding his breath, the Captain hardly dared hope.

"Athos and his two friends," Laurence confirmed. "I helped them escape from the Abbey."

Tréville was puzzled. "But why are they hiding in a cave? Why did Athos send you and what keeps them from returning to Paris?" He already had an inkling that he was not going to like the answer and the novice's next words confirmed that fear.

"All three of them are wounded. They cannot travel and anyway, their horses are still at the Abbey."

Tréville tried hard not to let his disappointment show in his face. It was serious then, for at least one of them would have attempted to make the journey of a few leagues to bring the document to the palace even if he had a minor injury.

"Just how badly?" he wanted to know.

Laurence hesitated for he knew he could not furnish the man with the answer he wanted to hear. "They were alive when I left them."

Tréville stared at him. "That bad!" The novice nodded. "And you say they are in hiding?" He knew he was repeating himself, using the same words, but he had to form a clear picture in his own mind.

"Those who attacked them continue to hunt them. That was when Athos bade me come to you. He and his friends need help desperately and I was the obvious choice; he also said it would remove me from any further danger. That was not quite true as I had to walk here and after I left them yesterday, I had to spend some time in hiding as well for the men who sought them were riding along roadways and over open country. They were angry that your men had escaped and that in doing so, some of the hunters had been wounded or worse. Had they seen me, they would have known from my attire that I was from the Abbey. They are holding the Abbot, brothers and lay brothers."

He paused in his account and Tréville's eyes narrowed as he immediately began formulating a plan. He was heading towards the door even as he fired further questions at his visitor.

"How many attackers are there?"

"I counted twelve when they first arrived at the Abbey but when your men made their escape I saw three, possibly four, fall. I do not know how many of them may have been fatalities though." He watched as the Musketeer captain threw open the door and disappeared out onto his balcony where he shouted out a couple of names before returning to the office.

"And how many hostages are there?"

Laurence winced at the harshness of the term. "There is the Abbot and some twenty-six other brothers. There are four besides me who have yet to take their holy orders and I have never been sure as to the total number of lay brothers who come to work there. I am afraid I cannot tell you how many were there when the men arrived."

"And when was that?"

"It must be three days ago now." Laurence blinked owlishly at the Captain.

Tréville was reckoning the numbers. Not accounting for the lay brothers, that meant thirty-one men, all ostensibly strangers to violence, were being held, subdued by a maximum of a dozen others. They had been unable to defend themselves or render assistance to his men in a fight for their very lives.

"Why were you with Athos and the others anyway?" the Captain asked.

Laurence gave a shy smile. "There is a secret tunnel that leads from within the Abbey walls out into the forest. The ground then becomes very uneven and rises into a massive limestone outcrop. The rock has been weathered and formed some caves which, if you did not know they were there, would be difficult to detect from any paths, such is the density of the trees and other vegetation. The Abbot gave me strict instructions to lead your men there."

Tréville assimilated the information he had just been given. Water permeated limestone and, with the recent torrential rain, perhaps the trio had access to something to slake their thirst; that was if their injuries had not incapacitated them to the point of being unable to move.

It was as if Laurence had read his mind. "They have water in the caves, but we did not have the time to gather any food or medical supplies."

At that moment, Claude appeared in the open doorway with Serge close on his heels. The Captain beckoned for them to enter and watched as they stared at the young messenger with undisguised curiosity.

"Brother Laurence here knows where Athos, Porthos and Aramis are," he announced to them. "They are being hunted by an unidentified group of twelve men and they have had to fight, possibly reducing opposition numbers by four, but we can't guarantee that. Claude, get twenty men to ride with us. Give them their maximum allocation of shot and powder and load a pack horse with additional ammunition. Make ready to be gone for several days."

Claude nodded his understanding of the instructions. "You're reckoning on puttin' up a bit of a fight then?"

"Something like that," Tréville agreed, "and I want to make sure we have the upper hand. Whilst I think about it, I do not want Delacroix or any of his friends amongst the men you select."

Claude did not appear surprised by the additional instruction. Given the other Musketeer's animosity towards Athos, there was no room for bad feeling or distractions.

"Serge, I know it doesn't give you much time, but I need rations for all the men for at least three days and, even more importantly, a bag of medicines and bandages."

The old cook raised an eyebrow. "Is one of 'em hurt?"

Tréville took a deep breath. "They all are, Serge."

Both the older men registered shock at the news.

"You make sure you bring our boys 'ome to us, Captain," Serge said, a distinct quaver in his voice.

"That's what I intend to do," Tréville announced grimly. "Send a messenger to me in thirty minutes to collect a communication for the palace; I need to explain my absence to the King and Cardinal at this time. Get to it; we ride in two hours."

II

The yard below was suddenly filled with the sounds of activity and simultaneous shouting, much of it from Claude himself as he called men by name and delegated tasks. Those within the garrison knew that something was afoot and even if they were not privy to details or amongst those chosen to accompany the Captain, they offered their services in preparing for the swift departure. Rumour was rife amongst the soldiers that the new patrol had to be going out on something linked with the recent discovery of the slaughtered Spaniards and there was further speculation – correctly - about a search for the missing Musketeers. An added incongruity was the Captain's resolve to lead the patrol himself for the second time in as many days.

"Can you ride, Brother?" Tréville asked.

Laurence smiled sheepishly. "I have occasionally sat upon a mule. I presume that the principle is the same."

Tréville could not resist smiling at the man's innocence. "Well it is, except that on horseback we will be travelling much more quickly. You had better ride double with one of the men."

Laurence nodded submissively, aware that the comment, although sounding concerned with regards to his inexperience in the saddle, was couched as a command.

As he sat at his desk, Tréville pulled a fresh piece of paper to him and began to write his message for the palace, the scratch of his nib the only sound within his office. Laurence sat quietly, wringing his hands restlessly in his lap as if fearful of disturbing the Captain's concentration. At last, he ventured to speak.

"I was wondering, Captain, if you have any specific task for me to do?"

Tréville shook his head, without even looking up at the speaker. "There is nothing, Brother. If I were you, I would take the advantage of the time to rest before we start the return journey. As we ride, I would have you answer some more questions I have regarding the attack upon the Abbey and my men and of course, I need you to show me where they have hidden themselves. If it is as difficult as you say, I hope that it keeps those pursuing them at bay until I find them, especially as they are requiring medical attention."

"Of course, Captain, but I was wondering if I could venture beyond the garrison. I have never been to Paris before and I have heard much of the wonderful Notre Dame. I may never have the opportunity to pass this way again and would welcome the chance to visit this magnificent building to offer up a prayer for this venture and the safety of your men."

Tréville considered the request. His immediate thought was to forbid it but then he saw the unveiled enthusiasm and yearning in the young man's eyes. How could he deny him this simple pleasure when the news he had brought was so important?

"Very well, Brother. You have less than two hours. I will summon a man to act as your guide."

"No need, Captain. You are busy, and I could not justify taking away one of your soldiers from his work. I saw the cathedral on my way here; I can hardly miss it."

"I urge you to be careful then, Brother Laurence. There are many here who would prey upon the vulnerable and you, as a man of the cloth and not used to the ways of the city, are doubly at risk."

"Come, Captain, why would anyone try to rob me? As a man of the cloth, I own nothing to be stolen," Laurence appealed to him.

Tréville reluctantly agreed. "But you must be back at the garrison within the two hours. I cannot have you delaying us."

Laurence grinned broadly, his delight at being allowed the freedom evident. He could hardly wait to get back and recount his adventure to his brothers within the Abbey. Immediately, he chastised himself for having thoughts akin to pride.

"Never fear, Captain. I will be back; I promise."

III

Milady de Winter was perusing the wares for sale on a market stall when a man approached and stood to her right, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Not making eye contact with anyone, he spoke quietly.

"A young monk arrived at the garrison."

Her green eyes widened in surprise. "A monk, you say? You are sure of this?"

He risked glaring at her scathingly. "I think I know a monk when I see one. Besides, he called himself Brother Laurence, said he was from Saint Denis."

Milady did not know whether to feel intense anger at the news or burgeoning panic. Had she not assured Richelieu that the death of the Musketeers would be straightforward? How could this religious man have found his way to their home in Paris? More to the point – why? It did not bode well.

"And he told you this personally?" she goaded, testing the veracity of his information.

"I was watching the entrance to the garrison, just like you told me to, an' up walks the monk an' stops there so I moved up, pretendin' to walk past an' droppin' somethin' on the ground."

"I do not need a second by second account of the clever decisions you had to make whilst you were doing your job," Milady snapped impatiently.

Aggrieved, the man scowled at her. "I heard him sayin' that 'e wanted to see the Captain an' wasn't goin' to speak to anyone else; he'd wait."

It was as Milady feared: someone had 'escaped' from the Abbey and had come to seek help. There was no coincidence in his coming directly to the garrison; it could only be because the Musketeers had directed him to come here. She needed to ascertain what the monk knew and what he had reported to Tréville. Meanwhile, there were other loose ends that needed tying up for now.

"You have done well and deserve your payment," she smiled and held out a coin purse which he seized eagerly. "That is from the person I represent but I have my own thanks for your invaluable information," and she offered him a bottle of good quality brandy. She saw with satisfaction the way his eyes widened with undisguised greed. "Enjoy!" she ordered as he clutched it to his chest and she turned to walk away.

If she understood the man, it would not be long before he was sampling the alcohol and she doubted that he would realise that it contained a tasteless but fatal additional ingredient until it was far too late.

IV

Brother Laurence emerged from the archway into the busy Paris street, a smile on his face as, undeterred, he absorbed the hustle and bustle. He had turned to walk in the direction of the cathedral when a dark-haired, beautiful woman, richly attired, stepped into his path, one hand at her throat as she struggled to maintain her composure as her right hand reached for him.

"Brother, I beg you for some help, please," she stumbled towards him, her emerald green eyes tear-filled.

He caught and steadied her, "If I can, my dear lady. Of course I will. What troubles you?"

"I was walking through the market and became separated from my man servant. I do not know Paris and suddenly felt so alone and frightened," she gasped, a wan smile on her features as he assured her of his help. "I know that I can trust you, Brother, as a man of God and wonder if you could accompany me through the streets to my destination or until we meet my man; he cannot have strayed too far."

Panic crossed his face and Laurence looked about him wildly. He had very little time and he had so wanted to see Notre Dame, but this young woman was in dire need of his assistance and, in good conscience, he could not refuse her. However, he was terrified that she might take him far from his way and it would be difficult to retrace his steps to the garrison. Once again, he berated himself for less than charitable thoughts. He had a tongue in his head and could ask directions. Most of the local people must have some idea as to the position of the Musketeer garrison.

"Oh, you were going somewhere about some important task and I have distracted you," she murmured apologetically.

"No, no, dear lady, I was pursuing a personal diversion by visiting Notre Dame," he explained hurriedly. "It is my first vi-"

Her face lit up. "But that was where I was going!" she interrupted him. "My man knew that was our destination. Perhaps, when we were inadvertently separated, he had the common sense to go there to meet me."

Brother Laurence flashed her a broad, innocent smile. "Then we can accompany each other."

Disregarding his religious calling, she slipped her arm through his and ignored the flush that coloured his cheeks as she chattered animatedly to him whilst they threaded their way through the crowded streets. Their physical closeness drew some curious glances, but she appeared oblivious to the attention they were receiving; he, on the other hand, tried to walk with a clear gap between them despite her clinging relentlessly to his arm as if afraid that were she to release him, he would disappear like her manservant.

As they walked, it was natural that they talked. Guileless, he did not realise that this stunningly beautiful woman at his side was asking a string of questions and he was willingly answering, divulging information that, had he been wiser in the ways of the world, he might have wondered at her need to know but as far as he was concerned, they were indulging in polite conversation to pass the time. It did not occur to him that she was sharing little with him, not even revealing her name.

He held a great wooden door open for her and allowed her to precede him into the huge stone building built to the glory of God, a monumental symbol of man's love, faith and worship for an omni-powerful deity. Overwhelmed by the architecture and initial glimpses of the inner fabric of the cathedral as he stepped across the threshold behind her, he could not see the expression on her face, the satisfied smirk as she assimilated the information she had been given.

The gullible monk-to-be had told her his name, that he had come from the monastery of Saint Denis on a mission of mercy and had been tasked with taking a message of great importance to the Captain of the King's Musketeers that related to three of his men. It failed to register with him that he had no idea as to her identity or anything else about her for that matter. He assumed that she was a genteel woman of means given her manner of speech, the way she conducted herself and the richness of her attire. That she was a great beauty, he was more than uncomfortably aware, and he had already mentally ordered himself to ask for forgiveness for having noticed.

Brother Laurence followed the dark-haired woman down a side aisle and asked her if she could see her manservant. In his heart he was anxious to say his prayers and return to the garrison so that he could guide Captain Tréville and his patrol back to the injured men to bring them much-needed relief.

He had no way of knowing that he would never make that return journey with the Musketeers and that he would not lead the Captain to the concealed cave where the wounded men were hiding, for he had no way of knowing that he had spent the last half hour of his earthly existence with one Milady de Winter, an agent and assassin of Cardinal Richelieu himself. He could not know that what he had told her had already sealed his fate, that he had barely six minutes left of life and that he would die, unshriven, in a side chapel of the wondrous Notre Dame de Paris, the place he had been so desperate to see.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Dear all, thank you for the lovely comments on the previous chapter. Yes, that was Milady at her worst. I felt very guilty about poor Brother Laurence! So what will happen now without him to act as guide? Will Tr**_ _ **é**_ _ **ville find his missing men soon?**_

 _ **Just about to head back to the wreck of my home so apologies for any errors that have slipped through.**_

CHAPTER 7

I

There were certain things that men of the Musketeer regiment knew were guaranteed to annoy the man who commanded them and one of them was tardiness. Woe betide the man who kept his Captain waiting if he did not have a very valid explanation and there had even been rare occasions when a compelling reason had not been accepted. There was a distinct difference between being tardy for muster or specific duties and being late when returning from a mission; the latter had lots of potential causes and then the inevitable anxiety about the men involved would begin to emerge. The young monk was tardy though and the men had no problem in sensing their Captain's displeasure. It emanated from every pore of his being as he paced the yard.

Brother Laurence had been given strict instructions as to when he was needed back at the garrison for their departure and he was not there. Tréville, though, was directing his anger inwards at himself. He should never have let the young man go alone to Notre Dame; he could – and should – have spared a man. They were not all involved in preparing for the rescue mission – for that was how he referred to it currently in his mind. Now, he had had to give the order launching another 'rescue' mission, sending out eight men to locate the young novice who was probably wandering the Paris streets, lost and struggling to find his way back. They had been tasked with searching main thoroughfares and side streets between the garrison and the cathedral, and then the religious building itself.

Tréville looked about the yard which was full of men, the ones who were to accompany him and brothers-in-arms who had been helping them prepare for their departure. The air was filled with the sounds of jingling harness, noisy exhalations and stomping hooves of impatient mounts, human coughing and muted conversations . Some men were already sitting in the saddle, talking down to nearby friends whilst others stood by their horses, carrying out last minute checks of saddlebags and buckles, a hand subconsciously stroking their restless animals.

Claude was at the back of the group, inspecting once more how the ammunition had been packed on a smaller horse that was in the charge of another soldier. He nodded his approval at the man, patted the animal's neck and moved to stand beside Tréville. The clash of weapons could be heard from one of the training yards to the rear of the main garrison buildings; someone was putting the cadets through their training to keep them busy whilst the more experienced men had moved as a unit to ensure all that was required was done.

Anxious eyes periodically settled upon the Captain, his anger simmering as the delay continued. A moment of unguarded irrationality had him wondering if the novice could realistically locate the cave again if he could not find his way back to the garrison and then he considered himself unfair and unjust in his criticism of the young man. After all, Brother Laurence was no imbecile. He had made his way to Paris alone and on foot. Had he not admitted that he had had the presence of mind to conceal himself when the need arose, and he could always ask for directions. Tréville was looking for any conceivable excuse rather than the one that was rearing its head - that something had gone catastrophically wrong.

Suddenly, a Musketeer ran through the archway and shouted Tréville's name. It was the grim-faced Henri Camart, one of the men despatched to seek out the young novice. The Captain strode towards him.

"The alarm has been raised at Notre Dame," Camart announced. "A young monk was found dead in a side chapel with his throat slit. He was slumped at the altar and was probably taken by surprise as he said his prayers."

Standing beside a wooden post, Tréville vented his anger by hitting the structure with his fist, ignoring the pain that erupted through his hand and lower arm.

"What more do you know?" he ground out.

"People were already gathered around the scene; some women were screaming, a couple more fainted and chaos was the result. Thumery and I forced our way through them and recognised the victim as the man who had been at the garrison."

"A side chapel, you say?" Tréville was already wondering which one, its position within the building and how such an atrocity could come about. Then there was the identity of the perpetrator and the motive. As the young man said before he left excitedly for his visit, he was a man of God with nothing of value. His death had to be related to the assault on the Abbey and his missing men, but how?

"I heard someone say the chapel was dedicated to a Saint Denis," Camart went on, oblivious as to the significance of his words for he had not met the novice, spoken to him nor known from where he hailed.

Tréville was sickened. There was the link. Saint Denis, bishop of Paris in the third century, had suffered decapitation at the hands of the Romans for his faith. Legend had it that he had picked up his head and walked several miles while preaching a sermon on repentance. Tréville had heard the story many times and really did not know what to think. He wanted to believe in miracles, but the life of a soldier rooted him in a certain reality and practicality. The irony of the situation was not lost on him though for the Abbey where the novice was in training was named after the very same saint; it had to be more than coincidence. In the assassin's macabre act of slitting his victim's throat, he was almost re-enacting the Saint's death, although it had not been enough to separate Brother Laurence's head totally from his shoulders and , for him, there was no hint of a miraculous resurrection, albeit temporarily.

Was this merely an act of opportunism or a carefully planned murder? Tréville shook his head. How could it have been the latter? Who had known of the young man's flight to Paris on an errand of mercy? He had to have been followed or under surveillance but by whom and for whom?

The Captain rued the violent waste of the life and had already grown to like the young man. Now his worries were increased tenfold about being able to find his missing men. The rational side of him resumed command: he knew they were in limestone caves beyond the Abbey in the forest. He and his men would probably have to leave the main paths in search of the caves for the novice had said they were hard to find through the dense undergrowth and trees if you did not know they were there. But he knew of their existence and the outcrop of rock had to be sizeable to house such hiding places. His concern remained that the men who were hunting them might reach them first. There was no time to be lost.

He could relieve the Abbey of its attackers; there would have to be other brothers there who knew of the tunnel and caves and who could act as his guide, but his men were in desperate need of medical attention and any fight with those that sought them could be prolonged. No, Athos, Aramis and Porthos were his priority. With twenty-one good soldiers accompanying him, they would find the caves themselves. Experience dictated that they understood all sorts of rough terrain and perhaps it would not appear as daunting to them as Brother Laurence thought. The only worrying thought was that what was straightforward to them might equally be straightforward to those in pursuit. It would be a grave mistake on Tréville's part if he were to underestimate their unknown enemy.

"Mount up!" he barked the order as he donned his gloves and strode to his horse. The stable boy handed him the reins. Claude swung easily into his own saddle and walked his horse to come abreast of Tréville.

"The young monk?" he queried.

"Dead," the Captain answered succinctly. "Murdered in the cathedral."

Claude gave a low whistle through his teeth at the news. "Poor lad. 'E didn't deserve that," he murmured sympathetically.

Tréville grunted. "No he didn't and it's my fault."

"Not sure how you come to that conclusion," Claude raised an eyebrow.

"When he asked permission to go to Notre Dame, I should have said no or at least sent someone with him. Now the boy has been killed and I could have saved him from that. At least I should have pressed him for more information before I let him go off by himself. This can only delay us finding Athos, Aramis and Porthos," Tréville admitted bitterly.

"You couldn't have seen that this was goin' to happen," the older soldier insisted.

"That doesn't excuse me," the Captain replied. "He came to me with news about my men and whilst here, he was my responsibility. I failed him. Whatever is going on has caught up an innocent individual in its web."

"You think it's all related?"

"I can't afford to think anything else, Claude. I just cannot fathom the who, why and a host of other questions. Camart!" He called over the man who had brought him the devastating news. "We need to depart. I have men out there needing assistance. Go back to the Cathedral with my authority and take six men with you as support. Examine the area and see what you can find out. Talk to those working there and any people who saw the novice when he first went in. You will collect the body and follow us to the Abbey at Saint Denis; he deserves to be laid to rest among familiar surroundings and by those who knew him best and who will mourn his premature passing."

"Of course, Captain," and Camart turned on his heels to fulfil the command.

As the column left through the archway on their rescue mission, Tréville could not help but contemplate what had happened at Notre Dame. The act of violence was also a desecration of a holy place which would need to be re-consecrated. Whether that was just the chapel or the whole building was not his decision to make and he wondered if Richelieu would become directly involved.

II

The weather was in their favour and ground conditions had improved likewise so they made reasonable time. In just under two hours, they crested a hill and saw the two towers of the west façade of the Abbey church of Saint Denis before them. In the distance beyond the Abbey, Tréville could see the vast expanse of densely forested, rolling countryside. Frowning, he pulled out his spy glass and scanned the dark forest, each undulation of the land and any variation in the level of the dark green canopy for a hint as to where the massive limestone outcrop might be. He then trained his eye on the Abbey itself; there was no movement, no sign of life. He wondered how many of the enemy remained within its walls and where the Abbot and brothers might be being held.

"Your plan?" Claude asked, breaking into his reverie.

"As I said, we find my men first and then we turn our attention to ridding the Abbey of those who have no right being there. We cannot help but pass close to the Abbey, so the attackers will be only too aware of our presence. If they have lookouts who are worth anything, they should be able to see us right now on this hill side," Tréville stated flatly.

He gave the signal and the column moved on at an easy pace and ever alert. They were approaching the gated entrance to the Abbey's other buildings when several men ran recklessly into the path of the lead horses, causing the soldiers to rein in hard. Those who spilled out into the road all wore the garb of monks and one stumbled towards them.

"I am Theobold, Abbot here. You must go quickly. The limestone caves," the man gasped and pointed towards the forest. "That is where the other Musketeers are hiding. Men went out looking for them. They must have found the caves because they came back for the men who were guarding us. They locked us in a store room, but we managed to break out. You must hurry!"

His words were interrupted by pistol fire coming from the forest and Tréville uttered a roar as he urged his mount into a gallop, the rest of his men reacting and following almost immediately.

There was no finesse, no attempt to take the attacking force by surprise; he simply wanted to drive them off so that he could reach his three injured Musketeers. Any casualties, fatal or otherwise, amongst the enemy would be an additional benefit, as would the taking of any prisoners but that was not foremost in his mind. They galloped along the roadway that entered the forest until Tréville halted and slid from the saddle, a pistol in each hand as he crashed through the undergrowth in the direction of the gunfire. His men spread out, their instinct and training taking over so that they did not need further instruction. Steadily, the line moved between the trees towards the sound of conflict and approached the attackers from behind.

Tréville saw where the trees began to thin out into a clearing occupied by bushes and some large boulders, behind which some of the attackers had taken refuge. Ahead was a sharp incline of dark grey rock and as the Captain studied its face, he could see what appeared to be the entrance to at least three caves. From the middle one, there suddenly came the flash and retort of pistol fire. That was where his men had taken refuge!

The ensuing battle between the newly arrived Musketeers and the group intent upon slaying their hidden brothers was short-lived. There were eight of them, so Brother Laurence had been correct in his estimation that four had fallen during the escape bid. Of those eight, four were wounded, two were killed outright and the remaining two had run with some of Tréville's men in pursuit.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis!" the Captain yelled. "All is well, you are safe now and can come out."

The only answer he received was a pistol fired in his general direction but wide of the mark.

"Hold your fire!" he ordered, convinced his men had not heard him. "It is me, Captain Tréville. You can leave your hiding place."

Suddenly, Porthos lurched into view and stood swaying in the opening of the cave, a pistol in his hand and he seemed intent upon using it again.

Tréville moved out slowly, his hands raised, so that Porthos could see him clearly.

"Porthos, it is me, Tréville. It's over; put down your weapon."

At last, it seemed to register with Porthos who had been calling to him as his eyes focused upon his Captain with some recognition. He began to smile and then to laugh, a familiar, reassuring sound that signalled his relief at the timely intervention by his brothers-in-arms. Tréville risked a return smile as he began to scramble up to meet him/ The laugh continued, growing louder, a strange, maniacal laugh that was far from natural and Porthos gesticulated wildly with the pistol.

"Did you hear me? It's safe now," the Captain said again. Closer now, he could see the fresh blood trail down the left-hand side of Porthos' face. "Porthos, it's me, Tréville. You can lay down your weapon."

At this, Porthos howled even louder. He spread his arms to take in the pistols around his feet and it was immediately clear that he had waged a one-man war against his attackers for Tréville identified the weapons as belonging to Athos and Aramis. Of the men themselves, there was no sign.

"There's no more shot, no more powder, nothin'." Porthos sank to his knees, his pistol hanging loosely at his side before his fingers opened and it clattered uselessly to the ground.

Tréville covered the remaining distance at a run and crouched before him, hands on the big man's shoulders to steady him. This had been too close. If he and his men had arrived any later …. He dared not think about what the consequences would have been.

"You are safe now. It's over. You're safe."

Gradually, the disturbing laughter eased.

Tréville looked around him and towards the mouth of the cave that the big Musketeer had been guarding but there was no sign of his two friends. "Porthos, where are the others?" He could not forget Brother Laurence's comment that his men were still alive when he left them.

"I guarded them; I looked after them," Porthos mumbled.

"I know you did and you did well, but where are they? Where are your brothers?" Tréville persisted, his worry mounting.

"I hid them," Porthos admitted cryptically before his eyes closed and he pitched forward against his Captain.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **A French league or lieue in pre-French Revolution period was anything between 3.25-4.68 km (2.02-2.91 miles)**_

 _ **One average modern route from Saint Denis to**_ _ **Î**_ _ **le de la Cit**_ _ **é = 18.8 km (11.7 miles) (Love the way they tell me it can be covered in 10 minutes on a particular A road!)**_

 _ **I have opted to use the shortest lieue so the total distance is 5.79 lieue.**_

 _ **Other research has suggested a horse can cover about 4 miles in an hour walking, 6 miles trotting and more (obviously) galloping. The patrol will use a mixture of the three in reaching Saint Denis, not wanting to push the animals relentlessly but still with a sense of urgency so I have ascertained they will cover the distance in less than two hours. The terrain and 'roads' would have to be taken into consideration and would possibly slow them a little too.**_

 _ **Saint Denis is the patron saint of Paris. One of the side chapels in Notre Dame is named for him.**_

 _ **West façade of the Abbey church of Saint Denis – current images will show one distinct tower at the west front. There were two towers originally, but the north tower was dismantled 1844-45. It was not designated a cathedral until 1966 and the Vatican has never officially granted it the title of a minor basilica.**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **A very short chapter this time, for which I apologise. Writing it – or anything for that matter – has been hard. At the start of an earlier chapter, I explained the difficult time my family and I have been having and things have only got worse.**_

 _ **I lost my beloved Mother on the afternoon of 4**_ _ **th**_ _ **September. My sister and I were sitting with her and she had her last wish, being at home and slipping away painlessly in her sleep. As I type this, her funeral is in just over twelve hours' time. This and the wreck of my house mean that I have not got back to work yet so my life just feels beyond chaotic at present.**_

 _ **This chapter is dedicated to her memory and with grateful thanks for her support in my writing endeavours. I can hear her oft repeated instruction: "It's good you're enjoying writing on this site but it's about time you got published and started earning some money!" One day, Mum, one day!**_

 _ **So this is a little offering just to reassure you that I am still around and that the story will gradually continue. I just beg your patience at this time. V**_

CHAPTER 8

"Here, let me 'elp," said a familiar voice and hands reached out to take Porthos by the shoulders and ease him back, relieving Tréville of the dead weight that had slumped against him. Together, he and Claude lowered the unconscious Musketeer to the ground.

"'Ow bad?" Claude asked as the Captain began a rapid examination of the soldier.

"This head wound's fresh," Tréville announced, his fingers stained with Porthos' blood. "Creased by a shot or a rock fragment shorn off by a ricochet, I shouldn't wonder." More blood had congealed stickily on the damaged upper left sleeve of the Musketeer's doublet and the two older men worked together to deftly remove the clothing to reveal where a blade had scored through the skin across the forearm for the length of a forefinger. It was not deep but would require some stitching.

"Looks like a defence wound," the Captain commented. "Must have lost his dagger or he was awkwardly trying to protect one of the others."

"Did he tell you where they were?" Claude asked, delving into the bag at his side that Tréville had not even noticed that he carried with him. He pulled out a couple of bandages.

"He said he's hidden them," Tréville explained.

"That doesn't sound good." Claude could not hide the concern he felt. "How bad must those boys be if they couldn't take care of themselves?"

Tréville rocked back on his heels to survey the three caves, each within a literal stone's throw. "They must be in one of these; probably the middle one as I cannot believe that he would stray too far away from them."

"Might be bluffin'," Claude considered. "Guard the middle cave so that those attackin' think the others are in there whilst he's hidden 'em in one of the others."

Tréville frowned at the suggestion. "It's possible," and he pushed himself up to stand, his eyes riveted on the cave mouths as he tried to reconstruct in his mind what Porthos might have done.

A group of half a dozen soldiers were now scrambling up to join them. Claude rose and gave them fresh orders, handing over the bandages and bag of medical supplies.

"Dorner, Gauthan, take care of Porthos here. You two," and he gestured to others, "check that left hand cave for Athos and Aramis and you two go to the right hand one."

Immediately, the pairs broke off to their set tasks as Claude stood beside his Captain. "Let's go and look for our boys."

Grim-faced, the two older men clambered towards the entrance to the middle cave. Peering into it murky depths, Tréville knew they would need some light. Claude came to the same conclusion and declared that he would resolve the problem even as the Captain tentatively ventured into the cave alone, calling out to Athos and Aramis as he did so, but he was only met with a stony silence.

Minutes later, light flared in the darkness as Claude returned with two quickly made, flaming torches, courtesy of two small branches, rags and, Tréville strongly suspected, some alcohol. The ragged tail of Claude's billowing shirt made it clear where the supposed rags had originated, and the Captain found the gesture reassuringly touching. The older soldier would do everything possible to locate the two missing men.

He relieved Claude of one of the torches and, holding them aloft, they both moved deeper into the cave which was bigger than either of them had first thought. Flourishing the torch as he moved round the jagged walls, Tréville tried to equate its size to something familiar, the only place coming to mind being the main library at the palace. Completing a circuit, his heart sank; the cave was empty.

"Where are you, Athos, Aramis?" he whispered, desperate to find the lost brothers-in-arms.

Those dispatched to search the other caves returned and he half listened to the exchange between them and Claude. Those caves were smaller than this one and definitely empty. So where were the two friends and why had they not responded to his calls? Were they so badly injured that they were unconscious …. or worse?

He began to walk again, mindful of the rock debris on the cave floor. The weathering process of the limestone was continuous, and parts of the floor were still wet from the recent rains that had permeated the rock from the outside and, at one point, he almost stumbled over an outcrop that was knee-high. In the top, it had a natural basin resulting from lines of weakness and that still contained fresh water. Here was a supply that the three could access that would potentially last several days with careful rationing, unless there were more of the same that he had yet to discover.

"Captain!" Claude was at the back of the cave, rolling some of the fallen rocks with one hand as he held the torch high in the other.

"What is it?" Tréville demanded as he hurried over to join him, something in the man's tone suggesting urgency.

"There's a tunnel behind these rocks. I reckon there's another cave joinin' this one an' Porthos has done all 'e could to conceal its entrance," Claude said, not pausing in his work and unable to suppress his excitement.

Tréville wedged his torch in between in a cleft and dropped beside Claude, tearing at the fallen rock and throwing it behind him as they worked together to reveal the entrance to the tunnel. It was not much longer than an average sized man lying at full stretch on the ground and it was low, making it necessary for anyone using it to crawl through on hands and knees. Claude immediately edged towards it but Tréville caught his arm.

"This is my responsibility. We don't know what's through there."

He did not need to say anything else; they both knew what he meant. If Athos and Aramis were through in the inner cave and they were dead, he had to be the one to find them. It was not a task that he was prepared to delegate and certainly not to Claude. He did not know what he would do or how he would react if his worst fears were realised but those initial minutes alone through there with the remains of his men would be precious ones.

For his part, Claude wanted to be the first through there, to learn the truth. He knew his Captain was fond of the incorrigible trio, although the officer would never admit it openly, and if he could delay the shock at finding those boys dead for just a few minutes, he would gladly do it. He would think of some way of breaking the news as gently as he could, maybe have the chance to rearrange splayed limbs or cover up the worst of any injuries. It was a well-intentioned but futile act for it was inevitable that Tréville would want to see everything for himself, that he would not allow himself to be spared any of the horror.

So Claude merely nodded and moved aside.

Taking up his torch, Tréville began to crawl awkwardly through the tunnel, trying – and failing – not to kneel upon loose stones and painfully uneven ground. He was edging his way forward, his movements noisy but he could hear something else. He stopped, senses alert as he strained to identify what it was.

"What's the matter?" Claude called out behind him.

"Hush!" he ordered. "I can hear a voice."

For it was someone speaking, softly, quickly and at random. He tried to make out what was being said but it was largely unintelligible save for one word that drifted to him. One word of Spanish.

"Aramis!" he called. "Aramis? I'm coming. It's alright," and he increased his efforts, scrambling as best he could and emerging into a second chamber, smaller than the first.

To his left, sprawled uncomfortably across a lot of small rocks and surrounded by even more, lay Aramis. On his back, his head tossed as he maintained an indecipherable monologue. Manoeuvring himself alongside the stricken marksman and raising the torch, Tréville saw the bloody left shoulder, the result of a lucky shot. Even before he laid a hand on the Musketeer's forehead and felt the heat, he recognised the tell-tale signs of a rampant fever.

Looking about him, Tréville saw a sort of low alcove in the rock and understood straight away what Porthos had done. He had dragged Aramis through the tunnel and laid him in the alcove, piling the rocks in front of him to obscure the injured man, just as he had done with the tunnel entrance.

"Claude, bring more light and some water through here," he yelled. It was not long before flickering torchlight heralded the approach of the other soldier, accompanied by the sound of him moving as quickly as he could through the tunnel to join him.

Claude held the torch so that Tréville could examine the wound more easily. He rolled the marksman onto his side.

"No exit wound," he announced. "The shot is still in there."

"An' with the conditions in 'ere, it's no wonder the boy 'as a ragin' fever," Claude added solemnly. He raised dark eyes to fix the Captain with a stare. "But where's Athos?"

Tréville, heart in his mouth, swept the torch around the chamber. On the other side of the tunnel, directly opposite where Aramis had been hidden, was another line of carefully stacked rocks. Scrabbling across the space in between, Tréville pulled at the rock pile and found the gap behind it. He held the torch as close he could and inhaled sharply. The dark leather was unmistakable.

Lying on his left side, back to the Captain, lay Athos, frighteningly still and silent.


	9. Chapter 9

_**Dear all, thank you so much for your support and messages during what has been a very traumatic time. I am back at work now but still living with a friend. My kitchen is in a skip on the drive but the place has been dried out and things are now moving. Writing has been a real struggle for the Muse seems to have gone on holiday but here is the next chapter at last.**_

CHAPTER 9

"There you are," Tréville muttered to himself, tearing at the carefully piled rocks to reveal more of his stricken soldier. Claude dropped beside him to help and they worked in silence; the Captain had never been so relieved by the sense of the other man's presence. There had been no sound or movement from Athos, nothing to show that he was even remotely aware that he had been found, that they were with him and that he was safe. Tréville was uncomfortably conscious of a tightening in his stomach muscles in fear at what he might yet discover. He had located his three men, injured though they were – he damned well was not ready to lose one of them now.

"Porthos did 'is job well," Claude said quietly. "He didn't want any of that dangerous scum to find 'is brothers."

"Almost too well," Tréville answered, a catch in his voice for his mind had already been thinking about the big Musketeer's method and reason for hiding the two men. "Supposing we had not come along at that point to help them. Supposing he had been killed away from the cave. Aramis and Athos could have succumbed to their injuries and never …" his voice trailed off at the prospect of what might have happened, his emotions suddenly too raw.

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder and his troubled, ice-blue eyes turned to Claude.

"But we did come along an' we _did_ find 'em. Now, are we goin' to waste time worryin' about what might've been or are we going' to get this boy out of 'is hidin' hole an' see what the damage is?" Claude advised.

Tréville managed a wry smile at the gentle rebuke. He nodded as Claude held a flaming torch whilst he eased Athos onto his back.

Neither of them could suppress their horrified gasps and Claude released a string of oaths.

"Dear God, they've given 'im a thorough beatin'!"

Tréville merely shook his head, unable to put his anger into words as he felt for a pulse in the young man's throat. Pale-faced, Tréville then leaned forward, a palm and ear against the chest of the fallen soldier. Claude held his breath, fearful as to what he might be told.

It seemed an age before Tréville gave a shuddering exhalation. "He's alive, very weak but alive."

He crouched over Athos, quickly assessing the horrifyingly visible injuries. A plethora of bruises on forehead and cheekbones were in stark contrast to Athos' usual pallor. Blood caked his nostrils and discoloured his moustache and beard; splits in both upper and lower lips showed where he had been viciously punched. Parting them gently and using a tentative finger, Tréville reassured himself that all the teeth were present and not loosened by the repeated blows. The left eye was swollen shut, the puffy lid a disfiguring and angry purple whilst a cut above his right eye had bled copiously.

Tréville shifted his attention to Athos' gloveless hands, lifting first one and then the other in his own as Claude lowered the torch to illuminate them better.

"No marks to suggest that he offered any resistance," he said bitterly.

"Swiftly outnumbered," was all Claude could offer.

Pushing wide the open front of the doublet, there was no further hiding of the large and ugly, dark red stain on the linen shirt above the waist of his breeches on the left-hand side. Pulling out the material, Tréville revealed the angry line that screamed a blade wound. In length, it would equal the span of Porthos' hand from thumbnail to little fingertip and, at first glance, it appeared deep. There was no question about the need for stitches and exposed as the wound was to the filthy environment, there was a worrying risk of infection. There was no way Athos could be treated and his injuries dressed under these conditions and with limited light.

"We have to get them both out of here quickly," the Captain declared, somewhat unnecessarily.

"You have any ideas?" Claude asked, twisting so that he could see the low tunnel and inhaling sharply as all sorts of problems reared their head.

Tréville thought for a moment. "We could use a blue cloak and start with Aramis. We lay him on it and pull him out, drag him through the tunnel and into the outer chamber. Then we come back for Athos."

It seemed a good plan – if only the two injured men would co-operate in some way.

Fever-ridden Aramis, trapped in a world of his mind's own making, could not be placated when they tried to move him and writhed upon the cloak brought through the tunnel by one of his confederates. In the end, what had seemed a straightforward plan degenerated into an arduous task with Tréville feeling every one of his years and more as he crawled backwards on his hands and knees, pausing after every move to grab the edge of the cloak and drag Aramis mere inches before repeating the process. At the other end of the cloak, Claude, also crawling awkwardly, spoke soothingly to the agitated young man, one hand supporting his head, lest he should hurt himself on the uneven ground in his restlessness.

Tréville had no idea how long it took to manoeuvre Aramis through the tunnel, but it seemed an age until, breathing hard, he sat back on his heels, relieved that he was able to straighten up and ease the screaming ache that had developed in his lower back with the effort. There was an even greater reprieve when several of his men materialised to render assistance. Another water skin was produced and held to the parched lips but more dribbled down Aramis' chin than went down his throat.

"We'll get Athos, Captain," one of the men offered.

Tréville did not know who had spoken as the voice emanated from the gloom. Whilst appreciating the offer, he stubbornly refused, determined that he would extricate both of his Musketeers from the place that so easily could have become their premature tomb.

"No thank you," he answered determinedly, his voice husky. "It is my job. You get Aramis out of here and down to level ground as carefully as you can and see what you can do to tend that wound in the first instance. Send two men back to the abbey; they must have a cart of some sort there that we can appropriate. We need it; we have three injured men to move. They are in no state to travel on horseback. Make sure that there are enough to help with getting Athos down from here." He grimaced. "I doubt that I will be able to be much good."

There was a smattering of chuckles at his admission.

"We'll see to things, Sir. Don't you worry," another voice reassured him, and the men were galvanised into immediate action.

Tréville puffed out his cheeks. "Ready to go back, Claude?"

"Of course," the older man answered. "We know what we're doin' now. It'll be easy," he asserted. "An' we've got the added advantage that Athos won't be wrigglin' like 'is friend." He was endeavouring to lighten the tension for they both knew that Athos was possibly the more seriously injured.

Unconscious he may have been, but he was a dead weight as they lifted him from amongst the small rocks and laid him gently on the second cape. There was the added concern that they did not know the full extent of his wounds. The vicious beating was evident on his face and the slash to his side could not be missed, but they feared that there could be internal damage which remained undetected and might be exacerbated by the move. There was no way that it could be avoided, and the toughest part would be dragging him through the tunnel.

Tréville could not determine which he had preferred – the restless, fever-ridden Aramis or Athos, whose stillness and silence were so disconcerting.

"Wait a minute!" he ordered and began to search through Athos' pockets in his breeches and doublet. When he found nothing, he opened the doublet and felt for the inner pocket.

"Never 'ad occasion to 'ave one of them in my doublet," Claude observed before adding, "but then you never got me to do the really dangerous cloak an' dagger stuff."

"Isn't being one of the King's Musketeers dangerous enough for you?" Tréville quipped, rearranging Athios' clothing and trying to hide his disappointment at not finding anything.

"More than enough," complained the older Musketeer, "when we 'ave to protect 'is Majesty from 'is hare-brained schemes!" He watched as Tréville pulled off Athos' boots, turned them upside down, shook them and then felt inside the boots. "Not found what you're lookin'for?"

Tréville shook his head.

"Maybe they've got it," Claude ventured, referring to the attackers.

"No. They haven't got their hands on it, otherwise they would not have been attacking our men when we arrived," Tréville went on.

"P'raps they wanted to get rid of the witnesses."

It was a bleak thought, but the Captain did not think it likely .

"Let's do this," he said to Claude, changing the subject as he took up the cloak and began to haul the unconscious soldier towards the tunnel entrance. Claude was correct, it did seem easier to get Athos into the outer chamber and certainly not so lengthy a struggle.

Another team of four men waited for them who carefully took Athos and prepared to carry him to the level ground. Tréville held his breath and watched as the group picked their precarious way down the rock-strewn slope with their precious load and set him beside Aramis. Porthos, having regained consciousness, was sitting propped against a tree, weakly trying to fend off two Musketeers who were vainly attempting to keep him in place, so eager was he to crawl across the ground to join his brothers. Tréville strode over to him, edged the men out of the way and crouched beside him.

"Easy, Porthos, we have them. You protected them well. Now we can help them, look after them and tend their wounds. You too, but I need you to stay here now. Rest. Leave them to us." With his hand, he lifted Porthos' chin so that he could look into the dark brown eyes and saw that they were still unfocussed. One of the men had wiped some of the blood from his face and bound his wound with a bandage; he looked marginally better than when they had first found him, but he was far from being his usual self.

He grunted some sort of acknowledgement and Tréville released him, letting his chin sink down onto his chest again. The Captain hurried back to where Claude was riffling through the bag of medical supplies, pulling out the contents randomly, but before he could do anything to help, he was distracted by raised voices.

Five men were approaching on foot and Treville saw that the two leading the way with wrists bound were the two attackers who had made a run for it. They had successfully been captured and were now stumbling to maintain their footing as they were pushed along by the Musketeers who followed, weapons trained on them. There was no doubt about them using their pistols to bring down a man should he think he could get away a second time. One of his men bellowed at them to halt and they were forced to sit on the ground, backs to an outcrop of rock.

He felt a stab of pride at his men's capabilities in ensuring that the attackers had not managed to escape but, ever protective of those who served him, it was quickly superseded by a surge of anger at what these aggressors had done to three of his regiment. He approached them, his face hard and stood, hands on hips, as he glared down at them. They tried to glower back in defiance but visibly withered under his cold, blue-eyed stare.

"I will deal with you two later. My priority is the men you have injured, _then_ I will ask my questions and you _will_ tell me what I want to know," he snarled.

Any refusal to co-operate or other taunt that they might have offered died on their lips as Tréville turned on his heels and was gone, leaving four expressionless Musketeers to stand guard over them.

"The cart will not be able to get to us. We need to move the three of them through the trees and undergrowth back to the main track to wait there," the Captain stated, standing behind Claude who cradled Aramis' head and dripped water past his lips.

"These boys have 'ad enough of manhandlin'," the older Musketeer commented.

"I know, but we don't have a choice. There are enough of us to carry them and we can take it slowly; others can go out in front trying to clear a path for us. Get them ready."

"And the wounded prisoners?" Claude indicated to where the four of them lay. A Musketeer was giving his attention to the two who were conscious and groaning with pain.

Tréville sighed. "I had momentarily forgotten that we had them as well. The cart may not be big enough to take seven of them at once and none of them look fit enough to sit a horse, let alone walk." He thought for a minute and then his features hardened. "If necessary, we will leave a couple of them here under guard and send the cart back from them. I hate the idea of transporting any of them with our men after what they've done, but I'm not callous enough to deny a man prompt medical attention."

"They've had some," Claude informed him, "but we're likely to lose one of 'em before the day's out, no matter what we do."

The Captain looked in their direction again. "I can't say I'm sorry but if their friends over there aren't willing to speak with us, these might be so appreciative of some care that they'll talk instead."

They fell silent .

"You think Athos might've passed that document to one of the others?" Claude suggested.

Tréville paused. "I very much doubt it; that is not the way the three of them work."

"You know 'em well."

"I've had plenty of experience!" Tréville gave a wry smile. "But I will search them anyway, just in case. I have nothing to lose."

"And everythin' to gain," Claude finished for him.

But the search was in vain for there was nothing on either Aramis or Porthos. Whilst two Musketeers led the way, hacking at undergrowth, the marksman and Athos were slowly carried through the trees and Porthos was helped by other colleagues to where the horses had been left. The walking prisoners followed and then the wounded ones were collected.

The entire group waited by the side of the main track and it seemed an age before the trundling of wheels through the forest announced the arrival of the cart. As it turned out, it was large enough to take all the wounded at once with a couple of the prisoners sitting on the edge, their legs dangling. The column moved slowly for the walking captives were tethered by long ropes to the saddles of two Musketeers and partly in deference to the injured for the track was uneven and the cart bounced uncomfortably. Tréville tried to blot out the moans of the prisoners but could not ignore the faces Porthos pulled as each jolt sent an excruciating pain knifing through his head. If at all possible, Aramis was more agitated than before whilst Athos had yet to show any response.

Tréville walked his horse beside the cart and looked down at the unconscious Musketeer, whose rolling head and occasional movements were merely incidental, caused by the juddering cart. His skin was white, the bruising livid and he had lost a lot of blood from the slash to his side.

"Come on, son. I need you to wake up and tell me what you have done with that treaty," Tréville muttered worriedly under his breath.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Dear all, thank you so much for all the supportive reviews for the last chapter. I apologise once more for the long gaps but I am still not back in my house. The good news is that I now have a ceiling and most of a kitchen! They just need to put the sink in! There there will be the tiling, decorating, flooring, lighting and carpeting replaced in other rooms … I do dream of being back in my home before Christmas though!**_

 _ **So, the Captain has found his men but they are in sore need of care and attention and where is the Treaty?**_

CHAPTER 10

I

The column slowly made its way back in the direction of the Abbey. Tréville would have liked to have moved a little faster – his men needed treatment - but he curbed his impatience for he could see that at least two of them were suffering with the uneven road and contented himself with supervising the laborious journey. He steeled himself to ignore Porthos' repeated groans of discomfort and the incoherent murmurings of Aramis. There would be constructive help for them soon, but it did seem an age before the two towers of the Abbey's west façade came into view and it was evident that one of the brothers of the religious house had been tasked with waiting for the return of the Musketeers for Tréville saw him disappear within its walls. As the soldiers drew closer, he re-emerged through the gate, a number of his brothers accompanying him, along with the Abbot himself.

Coming to a halt before the monks, Tréville dismounted, passed the reins of his horse to Claude and stepped forward, his hand outstretched in greeting.

"Abbot Theobold, I remember you from when we rode through here earlier. I cannot thank you enough for your help in finding my men. I am Captain Tréville of the King's Musketeers."

"Captain," Theobold replied, gripping the soldier's hand in a firm handshake. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Your men spoke of you when they were here." He glanced past the soldier to look at the cart, "I wish that it was under different circumstances. Our infirmary is at your disposal and several brothers stand ready to render medical assistance; they are the most skilled amongst us here. Brother Jerome will show the way." He gestured to a monk waiting nearby and watched as the man indicated to the column to follow him within the Abbey precincts. "We have food prepared for your men. I am eager to learn what brought you here so fortuitously and what will happen to those who perpetrated these troubles." The last comment coincided with the walking prisoners stumbling past, their wrists still bound.

"All in good time, Father Abbot, I promise. I am sure there is much that you can tell me also," the Captain responded. "but first we need a lockable room for our prisoners. Some are wounded and also need help, but I would ask that my men are seen first; they are my immediate concern."

"That is understandable, my son, but you need not worry. Your men will take precedence, I assure you, but there are enough brothers with at least a rudimentary knowledge of healing. None need wait for assistance."

The corners of Tréville's mouth twitched as he struggled to suppress his amusement at being addressed as 'son' for he judged that the Abbot, despite his white hair, was not too many years his senior.

The last of the column had passed by, disappearing through the Abbey gates but the Abbot was craning his neck, studying the men in the line as though searching for someone before turning his attention to look back down the empty road. Tréville realised immediately that he sought any sign of the young novice.

"Is Brother Laurence not with you? He had led your men to the caves." Even as the Abbot asked the question, he feared the worst, given the young man's absence and his face blanched. "Has something happened to him? Was he caught up in the exchange of fire?"

"I am sorry, Father, but Brother Laurence is not with us. He came to me in Paris to bring me word of what was happening here at the Abbey and that my men were badly hurt."

"Paris?" The Abbot was amazed. "But he has never travelled so far in his life; he is local to this area. Has he remained in the city?"

Tréville reached out and laid a hand on the man's arm. "In a manner of speaking, yes. There is no easy way to tell you, Father, but he is dead, murdered."

"Mur…." Even the word died away on the Abbot's lips, his face shocked at the dreadful news.

"My men at the garrison are investigating. I swear that I will do everything in my power to find the person or persons responsible for this atrocity. I had only just met Brother Laurence and I could not help but like him. I will always be indebted to him for what he did for my men. I have given instruction that, as soon as is possible, Musketeers will transport his body here so that he might be laid to rest in familiar surroundings."

The Abbot's grey eyes filled with tears, but he took a deep breath and quickly recovered himself. "I thank you for your thoughtfulness, Captain. We will do what is necessary for the living and then I would have you repeat the story of what happened to Brother Laurence."

II

Two hours later, some semblance of tranquillity had been restored to the Abbey. There was still plenty of activity, but it was controlled, muted and thoroughly efficient with brothers from the order working alongside Musketeers.

All the horses were settled, having been unsaddled, rubbed down, fed and watered. The two able prisoners were locked in an empty store that had plenty of room to accommodate any of the injured should they be deemed fit enough to be transferred. Just as he had hated the idea of transporting them all together in the cart, Tréville equally disliked the idea of any of the attackers remaining in the infirmary in close proximity to the three men they had hunted and wanted them out of there as soon as possible. In a rapidly drawn up duty rotation, two of his men were designated to stand guard outside the makeshift prison at all times.

Pallets had been laid down in several guest rooms with blankets, an unexpected luxury for a group of men more used to sleeping on hard ground beneath a starry sky or huddled together for warmth under canvas in inclement weather. The remaining Musketeers were being made welcome in the Refectory as they seated themselves on benches at long trestle tables. Set before them was a veritable feast of a hot pottage, fresh bread and a hard cheese, accompanied by pitchers of weak ale and they fell to devouring the victuals hungrily, their conversation sporadic and subdued as thoughts never strayed far from their wounded brothers in the infirmary.

Tréville remained in the infirmary and had spent much of the time pacing between one bed and another, watching carefully as the Abbot's men treated Porthos, Aramis and Athos. He cast cursory glances in the direction of the wounded, devoid of sympathy as their moans distracted him from his more pressing concerns, namely the well-being of his _Inseparables._ When a brother approached him and quietly announced that one of the prisoners had breathed his last, Tréville's eyes never left Aramis as his wound was flushed out - the ball already extracted – and the bloodied skin gently washed clean. He had fallen silent, losing consciousness during the surgery, something for which Tréville was heartily thankful. There had been that one moment, when a burning agony spread through his shoulder, that Aramis had emitted a guttural scream, his back arching off the bed so that the Captain had leaped forward to hold him down. Just as suddenly, he had sunk limply and senselessly back onto the sheet and there had been no sound from him since.

Porthos' head wound had received a couple of stitches and he was troubled by a blinding headache and nausea, his stomach rebelling twice, but now he was also resting more comfortably. One of the monks sat beside him to monitor his condition, wake him regularly, bathe his brow and have ready the bowl should there be any more vomiting. In the few moments when he had seemed to be more aware, Tréville had been the one to sit with him, speaking softly to determine what he remembered of events, but the thoughts were still far too confused to be of any value. Apart from crying out for his brothers and the Captain's reassurances that they were in the same room with him – news that rapidly quietened him – there had been little recognition of where he was and who was present.

Now the Captain leaned against the wall, arms folded as he unconsciously adopted the same stance as the one favoured by the unconscious man he watched.

"He has been unresponsive for hours now," he announced, deliberately keeping his voice low so as not to startle the brother who was putting the last of a line of stitches in the long slash wound in his side.

"He has lost a great deal of blood and is very weak, not helped by the serious beating that he had already endured. His body's ability to fight is severely hampered as a result."

"But he will recover?" the Captain pressed.

The monk turned to give him an encouraging smile. "I will pray for him, Captain, but he is young, and I believe that he will recover."

Tréville bit back the retort he so wanted to make. Whilst Athos needed more than prayers, he needed him to wake up swiftly, but he knew better than to ask the question that was on his lips for no-one could predict when that might happen. The Abbey and its precincts covered a significant area and he had no idea where to begin his search for the missing Treaty. He expected Athos to have some logic as to where he had concealed the document, but it depended heavily on whether Athos had the time to secrete it safely.

He stood there willing there, willing the younger man to open his eyes; well, one of them at least. It would probably be several days before bruised and swollen eyelid opened fully. What had happened for Athos to receive such a horrendous beating? When had it occurred? He had no doubt that the other two had come to their brother's aid and had affected their escape, but the overall sequence of events was confusing and who were these people who had hunted down his men and were willing to threaten the lives of those in a religious house? They were not Spanish; of that he was certain. A couple of the injured prisoners had spoken French and he would need to discover who had employed them. Was it the same person who had sent the killers after the Ambassador? If it were not, how many people were involved in all this? The idea had him shivering with a cold fear.

He had so many questions about what had transpired within the Abbey and wondered how much the Abbot would be able to tell him. There was undoubtedly a story there and he wanted to hear it for he was not likely to learn it any time soon from his three best soldiers. The religious leader had already sent to him once to renew the invitation to eat and talk but he could not do that until he knew his men were out of danger. Claude had already updated him with regards to the prisoners and how the soldiers had been welcomed and cared for by the relieved monks. They would need to return to Paris as soon as possible but he was left deliberating when it would be appropriate to move Aramis and Athos. Porthos would recover much more quickly but Tréville hoped that his two friends would not be forced to remain behind in the care of the brothers.

"Sit, Captain, and rest."

Tréville started. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he had not realised that the monk had finished sewing Athos' wound and dressed it. A chair had been paced by the bed and the monk was indicating that he should sit. He suddenly realised just how tired he was and he sank heavily onto the wooden seat beside the bed.

"I have prepared a pain draught should your man stir…."

"Athos," Tréville interrupted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Athos; his name is Athos," Tréville repeated.

The monk inclined his head in another apology. "Of course. I did not have the pleasure of being introduced to him when he first arrived here, and it is wrong that I should be meeting him like this, but I am pleased that I have been able to serve somehow. His wound is clean, although a little inflamed. I am hoping that it is the effect of the injury and subsequent treatment rather than the first indication of an infection." He gave another little smile and Tréville felt a surge of irrational anger at the man's gentleness and habit of smiling. It was very tempting to grab him by the shoulders and shake him.

"And you are?" Tréville asked from between gritted teeth.

"Brother Raphael. Now if you will excuse me, Captain, I shall clear these things away and leave you with Athos. I shall not be far away, only in the next room for I have to make up a fresh elixir for Brother Thaddeus. He is the oldest of our brothers and has a troubling cough. The recent tensions have exacerbated his symptoms."

He picked up the tray that bore needle and thread, unused bandages and the bowl of red-tinged water with its cloth soiled with Athos' blood. Bowing again, he backed away from the bedside and then turned. He seemed to glide from the room in an unnerving silence.

Tréville leaned forward on his chair and studied the unconscious soldier. A sheet lightly covered him up to the waist revealing the uppermost part of the large dressing on his left side. There was significant bruising on his torso from his maltreatment at the hands of the attackers. The monk had failed to mention any broken ribs, so the Captain quickly ran his hands over Athos' flesh, his fingers feeling for any unwanted movement of bone, relieved when there was no give beneath the discoloured skin.

Athos' face was ashen where there were no contusions and Tréville carefully brushed aside the unruly hair from the forehead before he tentatively rested his hand there. He was clammy to the touch and the Captain hoped that Brother Raphael was right in hoping that there was no real threat of infection.

"I order you not to develop an infection, you hear me? Brother Raphael has done all he can for the time being and I really need you to wake up and talk to me," Tréville whispered.

He did not want to disturb the other sleeping Musketeers, nor did he want the injured prisoners to hear what might be said. He turned at a noise behind him. Porthos was sick again, the monk tending him murmuring soft words of comfort.

"I have to know where you have put the Treaty, Athos. I know you will have hidden it well, but your precautions are meaningless if I cannot locate it." Taking a limp hand in his, he alternately patted and stroked the back of it with a thumb, hoping that the contact might elicit some sort of response. He gave a soft chuckle. "You know, Porthos was protecting you and Aramis, standing guard at the opening of the cave. He'd taken some time to conceal the pair of you; he did not plan on anyone finding you too soon. That's what you have done with the Treaty, isn't it? It must have come as a shock when you found out from the Ambassador that you were bringing the real document. It was a big enough shock to me when Richelieu admitted what had happened; I swear I had no knowledge as to what Méndez and the Cardinal had planned."

He paused as the fingers resting in his hand curled a little.

"Athos! Athos, do you hear me?"

The Musketeer lay on his back, head turned towards the Captain and Tréville was convinced that he saw a flicker in the lashes of the 'good' eye.

"Come on now, Athos. Open your eyes. Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."

There it was again; the almost imperceptible movement of the fingers and the Captain's heart began to race. "That's it, lad. I know you can hear me. Wake up."

Athos began to move, until pain knifed through his body and he emitted a long, low groan.

"Wha …" Eyes still closed, he did not finish the question.

"Lie still. You have a bad slash to your side and it has needed a lot of stitches, but you will be fine, I know it."

More slurred, almost unintelligible words were uttered but Tréville had no problem in interpreting their meaning.

"Porthos and Aramis are right here. They are hurt too but all three of you will get better. We have got the men who attacked you. You're safe now."

Athos moaned again but the one eye, a dull green, eventually began to open. "Cap'n." His words were still barely distinct.

"Yes, it's me."

"Where …. Where am ….I?"

"We're back at the Abbey. You needed treatment urgently for your injuries."

"Abb…" A frown creased Athos' brow and he groaned again. "The Trea…ty."

Tréville leaned closer. "Yes, the Abbey. Where is the Treaty? Where have you hidden it?"

Athos fell silent and Tréville wondered if he had heard the last question, but the weakened young man stirred and took a deep breath as he struggled to find the energy to answer.

"Abbey," Athos repeated, his voice briefly stronger. "Right hand. Right handed. Always on the right."

"What's always on the right? Athos, what do you mean?"

"Right handed. Three ….three Musketeers. Abbey. In ….. the abbey. Three of … The Abbey….. Right ….Three Musketeers." The words tumbled out in a breathy rush and then there was no more. Athos had slipped into unconsciousness once more and the Captain knew there was no chance of reviving him again in the near future.

He sat back in his chair, perplexed. Right handed? The three Musketeers? And where did the abbey fit into all this? Was that where Athos had hidden the Treaty? But what did the rest of it mean?


	11. Chapter 11

**_Dear all, thank you for patiently waiting for the next chapter and for all the lovely comments from the last chapter. Apologies for the errors that crept through._**

 ** _Still not back home but have a decorated, fitted kitchen, a Christmas tree (!) and the first goods replaced. Kitchen floor and more goods this week and carpets in January._**

CHAPTER 11

Captain Tréville sat picking at the food on the pewter plate in front of him, pushing it around and rarely raising a morsel to his mouth. Although the stew looked and smelt good and was adequately seasoned, it tasted of nothing. He knew that it was not the fault of the cooks within the Abbey, but the sole result of his being so distracted as he mulled over Athos' words that went through his mind again and again.

He knew the soldier well enough to realise there had to be significance in the repeated words "abbey", "three musketeers" and "right-handed", rather than them being the mere ramblings of a seriously injured man fighting his way back to consciousness. The only thing Athos was fighting was to communicate his precious message. Now all that remained was for Tréville to make sense of it.

The atmosphere within the long room was sombre, his men tired and concerned for their brothers so that there was little conversation even though there was not a rigid monastic rule of silence during mealtimes. The most voluble person present was the middle-aged brother who stood at a lectern, his voice intoning a reading from what Tréville recognised as being one of the Gospels.

"If you have had sufficient," the Abbot began softly, breaking the silence that had settled between the two men, "we can retire to my office where we may talk freely."

Tréville nodded and watched as the Abbot signalled to a novice who stepped forward, gathered up their discarded plates and hurried away without uttering a word. The officer rose slowly to his feet, suddenly aware of how tired he felt but he followed the Abbot anyway as he was led from the refectory and down a light and airy corridor.

The chamber he entered was spacious and high-ceilinged, its plain, white-washed walls clean but unadorned with anything save a large wooden crucifix over a stone fireplace that sat cold and bare. A table that served as a desk stood at the far end of the room, one chair positioned behind it and another one to the front. A tall cabinet and two chests were the only other pieces of furniture, allowed for practicality's sake rather than any adornment.

The Abbot indicated to Tréville to take the second chair whilst he eased himself onto the hard, wooden seat at the table where he dealt with the abbey's daily business.

When they were settled, it was the Abbot who broke the silence.

"I know that you must have some very pressing questions, Captain, but I would appreciate it if you would first tell me what happened to Brother Laurence."

"Of course; it is the least I can do after what you and he did for my men," Tréville said. "Had it not been for his courage in coming alone to Paris to find me, I would not have known what had happened to them. I certainly would not have found them in time to render them the necessary assistance they so desperately needed had it not been for Brother Laurence."

Slowly, kindly, Tréville told the Abbot what had happened to the young novice, how he had valuable information for the Musketeer officer, how he had been so excited to see the great cathedral and set off enthusiastically for Notre Dame with his final promise that he would not be late in returning. The Captain went on to explain how Laurence had not , in fact, come back to the garrison so that a search had been initiated with the dreadful discovery of what had happened. He had left men investigating the horrendous murder with the assurance that the body would be brought to the Abbey at the first conceivable opportunity.

The Abbot sat in shocked silence for several minutes. Tréville poured him a glass of watered wine he saw on a tray on a nearby chest and handed it to him, remaining at the man's side in case he needed assistance. Theobold's hand shook slightly as he took it and sipped at it, his eyes staring into the distance as if reliving a memory of the dead novice.

"I admit that I am not so surprised that young Laurence made such a journey alone. As keen as he was to take his final vows, I often had to counsel him in curbing his adventurous spirit. I am afraid that he was fascinated at the arrival of your men and their life as soldiers," the Abbot continued.

"I apologise if their presence was disruptive," Tréville said guardedly, but the Abbot waved a hand dismissively and gave a wry smile.

"Their presence, as you put it, certainly livened things up in our very staid existence here but they needed our help and we were in a position to offer it." Theobold became serious. "If anything, it was our mistake that culminated in Athos' capture, the necessity for his companions to stage a dangerous rescue and their desperate fight to escape."

"You have nothing for which you must blame yourself. You took in my men, gave them shelter and tried to protect them at great risk to yourself," Tréville reassured him but Theobold shook his head.

"We certainly hid _them_ but failed to hide the horses sufficiently. Oh yes, we managed to find a secure place for their saddles and those recognisable blue blankets, but the animals were too good for the stables of a religious house and the men, when they arrived, immediately saw this. They would not permit the brothers to tend their mounts and insisted on doing it themselves. That's when they saw those magnificent beasts." There was another long pause.

"What happened then?" Tréville urged softly.

"They were angry and assembled us all together, keeping us under armed guard in the refectory and making all kinds of threats against us. They wanted to know where the Musketeers were, but we would not tell them. We stayed silent for as long as possible. Many genuinely did not know where your men were secreted, for I was the one who had taken them to their place of concealment. I alone knew their position and when those who invaded our sanctuary threatened to harm my brothers, I was struggling to withhold that information."

The Abbot's sense of guilt was palpable but Tréville fully understood the dilemma faced by the man.

"My men would not want to see any of you hurt on their behalf," he announced.

Theobold nodded. "That is what Athos said to me as he left his companions?"

"Left them?" Tréville was confused but wondered if he were about to find out where the document had been put.

"He is quite a formidable young man; when he puts his mind to something, there is no dissuading him."

The Captain raised an eyebrow in amusement. "That sounds like Athos. So tell me, what did he do or say?"

"I had some of the lay brothers watching the road and they alerted us to the approach of a large group of riders, so your men realised that they had not successfully thrown off their pursuers. Again they wanted to leave but I said there was a safe place for them within the Abbey, so they followed me to where I hid them; there is a small chamber behind a panel in the library. Once they were there, Athos insisted that he had something of great importance to do. His friends tried to stop him but when they saw their attempts were futile and time was short, they wanted to know what he was intending. He refused to tell them or me."

"Did you see where he went?" Tréville was now convinced that Athos had been going somewhere to hide the Treaty; it still had to be within the religious site.

He could appreciate the young soldier's motives for not divulging to anyone the whereabouts of the document for he wanted to keep all safe, including his brothers, but there was the element of the misguided because the attackers could have tortured anyone to extract the information from the person or persons who had that knowledge. More worryingly was the realisation that, in the event of Athos' death, the Treaty would never be found. The Captain saw the move as well-intentioned with a hint of desperation – Athos knew that he had little time before the men following them reached the Abbey and its precincts. He did not want to be captured with the document on him.

"I last saw him going in the direction of the Abbey, but I did not wait to see if he went inside and there are several other outbuildings beyond it. His final instruction to me was that if their pursuers came into the Abbey and menaced us, we were to tell them everything, including the story that the Musketeers themselves had intimidated us to help them. We were not to endanger ourselves under any circumstances."

"And did you?" Tréville probed gently. "Did you tell the attackers where my men were? I understand it if you did; you had no choice. You would try to protect those in your charge here just as I would any of the soldiers in my regiment."

"Thank you, Captain," the Abbot said warmly. "Thank you for trying to salve my conscience but I never had to say anything. Those who attacked the Abbey intercepted Athos as he was trying to get back to his friends. They were determined to get the information they wanted from him and were brutal."

The Abbot frowned, the memory of what had happened too disturbing and, when he took a deep, shuddering breath and resumed his tale, Tréville saw why.

"They made us watch. They had already taken his weapons, but they also stripped him of his doublet and boots, searching them and his other clothes for something. Then they beat him, demanding to know where the other two were and what he had done with some document. I realised then what he had been about when he went off by himself. I made to speak but he caught my eye and shook his head. If anything, he deliberately taunted the ruthless men who increased their assault.

"I have never witnessed such violence, nor have most of the brothers here. One collapsed and others openly wept in their helplessness. All of us were shocked, especially as he continued to protect us, saying that he had threatened us with far worse if we did not assist the Musketeers. He would not tell them anything about his friends or this document. He endured his treatment with very little sound, just a slight smile which angered them further so that eventually they knocked him senseless. I asked if someone might be permitted to tend his injuries, but they laughed at me and threw cold water over him, reviving him enough to begin their brutal actions again. Still he maintained his silence."

The Abbot turned troubled eyes to the Captain. "What document could be worth such pain and evil?"

Tréville gave a deep sigh. "I wish that I was at liberty to tell you after all that you have been subjected to, and I am truly sorry that you and all those with you have been drawn into this. All I can say is that the document is of incalculable value and national importance. Some men have already been killed because of it."

Theobold gave a sudden gasp. "Was that why Laurence was murdered too?"

Tréville shrugged. "As much as I would like to think it was a chance attack, I fear that there has to be some connection, although I cannot fathom what that is just yet. There would be no point robbing a man so obviously from a religious order and the place of the attack, within the cathedral, was so brazen, showing no respect for the house of God, that it smacks of deliberate intent. Why Laurence? It had to be because he was seen at the Musketeer garrison. Somehow a link was made between my men, their mission, the route they were taking and the position of the Abbey. Why else would Laurence have been at the garrison in Paris?"

"But why would anyone think he came from this particular Abbey?"

"I have been going over that in my head for hours. Someone must have suspected his errand and killed him as a safety measure or," and here he paused as another, more disturbing thought occurred to him, "he spoke to his attacker."

Theobold nodded. "He was a friendly, talkative innocent and that would be his undoing."

"I cannot help but wonder what he might have said," Tréville said worriedly, his mind racing.

"He would not have divulged anything about the reason for his coming to see you but if he mentioned the Abbey by name …" The Abbot's voice trailed away.

"I do not doubt his integrity in keeping to himself why he came to see me – he knew when to hide along the road to Paris - but it is possible he said enough to bring about his death."

"But who could see him as such a threat as to silence him permanently?"

"Who indeed?" Tréville said.

He was not about to share his burgeoning concerns. Just who was plotting to prevent the Treaty from being delivered to Paris and how many different parties were involved? Was it just one influence widely spread throughout France and Spain or several factions?

The Spanish Ambassador and his retinue had all been slain on one route as they supposedly brought the Treaty to Louis. Tréville's men, who had met with the Ambassador, had been pursued on a second route and subsequently injured in protecting that Treaty; the Captain had no doubt that his men would have been killed had he not arrived when he did. At the same time, an innocent novice had brought him news in Paris and was then callously murdered.

Could it all be the work of one opposition party? If so, it was many in strength and well-informed to attack almost simultaneously at different sites. Where and how was that information being sourced then? More than one group could potentially make it difficult identifying them and where they were getting their information. Was one person involved in such treachery then and passing sensitive information to all? Heaven forbid that there should be more than one traitor in the negotiations!

Annoying though it might be, he hoped that the leak of details hailed from the Spanish because he dared not dwell on the ramifications of it being France. Whilst Louis' Council members were necessarily privy to the existence of negotiations for the Treaty with Spain, they were not yet familiar with the minutiae agreed by the King and Richelieu with their Spanish counterparts and they were deliberately not told any of the details appertaining to the movement of the signed Treaty. The less people knew, the better.

Tréville knew that no leak of information had come from the garrison or, more importantly, from him and he thought back to the conversation he had had with Louis and Richelieu. The King was not always a model practitioner in the art of discretion, but he was desperate to secure a lasting peace with his Spanish brother-in-law so was unlikely to have spoken rashly or in an inappropriate setting. The Cardinal had been swift to apportion the blame to the Spanish, denying any possible leak had come from his office but the Musketeer Captain knew from experience that France's First Minister had some very underhand methods in assuring the country's interests were protected.

Richelieu had been working hard to bring the negotiations to a fruitful conclusion and gave every indication of supporting the Treaty but Tréville had known and worked with the man for too long and he could not shake off the niggling doubt that he had. It could not be denied that, outwardly, the Cardinal gave his full backing to the agreement.

But what if he were working behind the scenes to ensure that the Treaty was never ratified? What could possibly be his motive and what did he stand to gain if the negotiations came to naught?


	12. Chapter 12

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Thank you to all those who have read chapter 11 and to those who have left messages.**_

 _ **Well, they do say that things happen in 3s and in this, my own Annus Horribilis, that seems to be the case.**_

 _ **With Mum and the house, I now have an infected, ulcerated toe on an already bad foot so I have been on enforced rest for the past 3 days. My friend, with whom I am currently still living, is away exploring a European Christmas market this weekend (for 3 nights) so I am 'home alone.' No decorating or unpacking at the house and Christmas shopping (3 again) and I have had to postpone tomorrow's arrival of the replacement washing machine until January because of a more important medical appointment.**_

 _ **The good thing is that I have spent 3 glorious days writing, eating, sleeping, watching Christmas tv and drinking wine. (Checked the leaflet in the antibiotics and they**_

 _ **said nothing about alcohol. Please don't disillusion me and tell me otherwise!) I think I've finally broken through the current writing block.**_

 _ **It has been hard to focus in recent months. So 3 chapters in 3 days. Can I manage a 3rd chapter tomorrow? Athos keeps on about 3. Who knows?**_

 _ **Apologies for any errors that have crept through this time.**_

CHAPTER 12

Tréville realised that the Abbot had not concluded his tale for a major part had yet to be explained. "How did Athos, Aramis and Porthos escape?"

"I asked to speak with their leader, a callous, unscrupulous man and adopted an air of increased piety and humility. I do have a penchant for the dramatic when the occasion arises." There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"I would never have believed it!" Tréville feigned some surprise.

"Ah, but I am sure Our Lord permits us a little subterfuge when occasion demands it," he answered in justification. "By this time, we had missed a meal and two of our offices, as well as leaving much of the Abbey's daily work undone. Animals needed tending, people would be hungry, and I did not want us to miss Compline too. I beseeched him to let us continue our daily routine. I would instruct him as to where brothers were going and their reasons. All work was within the Abbey walls, the main gate was guarded by two of his men whilst others in the perimeter walls were locked; he had them checked so there was no apparent means of escape."

Tréville noted the use of the word 'apparent'; that implied that there was a way out of the Abbey grounds and was likely to have been the escape route of the _Inseparables._

"I stressed that we were unlikely to offer any form of resistance for we did not hold with fighting and that he could keep us watched." The Abbot gave a soft chuckle. "For one who was a leader of men in such a violent enterprise, he was not blessed with a strategic mind."

Tréville could not suppress a smile at the other man's amusement in what he had done. "And does this leader have a name?"

"I heard one of the others address him as Loret. We have also learned the names of a few more of them. It was a little careless of them if they did not want us to be able to identify any of them in the future."

There was nothing careless about it at all, Tréville realised. Future identification of those who had invaded the sanctity of the Abbey would not be an issue for there was no intention of leaving any witnesses alive- the trail of dead and the attempt on his men was clear evidence of that - but he dared not say as much to the Abbot.

"Of course, some of them have not come back from their encounter with you," the other man continued. He had the Captain's full attention once more.

"What about Loret? Did we bring him back?"

The Abbot's eyes widened at the abrupt questions. "Why, yes. He was one of the two walking prisoners."

Tréville restrained himself from appearing too jubilant at the news. It would be the leader who would liaise with and receive orders from the person who employed them. If he could only get Loret to talk … It supposedly depended upon how desperate the man was to save his own skin! Perhaps, at last, something was happening in Tréville's favour.

"So Loret allowed you all to go about your business?"

"Only the most essential tasks were allowed, otherwise we had to remain in the refectory. I was escorted here to collect paperwork that I could sit and do there." The Abbot was clearly pleased with himself. "The one who accompanied me thankfully did not have the gift of observation; in fact, he seemed totally bored. That enabled me to collect some keys. They were unaware that I have a set of duplicate keys to all the locks in the Abbey."

Tréville sat a little straighter in the chair, impressed by the man who sat before him. He was definitely a force to be reckoned with, there was no doubt about that.

"When Athos lost consciousness a second time, they dragged him to a storeroom and locked him in there. It was a blessing in disguise for at least it meant that they would leave him alone for a while as some of them set about searching the place for his friends. " The Abbot's face darkened. "I was still concerned for his well-being and knew that he and his friends had to escape before they were all killed. I could not help him directly for, as the head of this religious house, I was being watched too closely but I had to do something. Under the pretext of some business, I gave Laurence instructions and the keys to both the storeroom and revealed to him the entrance of a secret exit."

Tréville raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"It's location is known only to the presiding Abbot, Infirmerer and Hospitaller. The tunnel was dug out shortly after the Abbey was first built and was to be used in an emergency. I confess that I do not know what it was my predecessors feared that they deemed such a thing necessary, but I bless them for their foresight. If ever there was something that could be called an emergency, this was it.

"When we were allowed to go to Compline in the Abbey, Laurence slipped away. I do not know how he managed to do it for I never saw the going of him, but one minute he was in the line of brothers and the next he had gone."

The Abbot looked downcast. "That was the last I ever saw of the boy. We heard the fighting when it began and feared the worst. Pistols firing, swords clashing and the sound of men shouting and screaming. We were terrified but knew your men had escaped and Laurence with them because the attackers were so angry when they came back to us and started to pick upon some of the older brothers until realising that they really knew nothing.

"The men assumed the Musketeers could not have got very far on foot and that was when I found out that your men were all wounded. The hunt on horseback began but they were not out long as night fell quickly. That gave Laurence the time to lead the three to safety; he knew of the caves and that they might stand a chance of defending themselves from there. Of course, they ran the risk of being trapped but anything was better than being caught in the open."

Tréville was very moved by the Abbot who, along with the monks in his charge, had abjured the ways of the world, all its sin and violence and yet, with the arrival of the three Musketeers, wickedness had followed them and put many innocent lives at risk.

 _Three Musketeers._ Those had been Athos' words, repeated again and again as he tried to make clear his message.

The Captain remained with the Abbot a little while longer, but he was so uneasy with his thoughts that he excused himself as soon as he could, saying that he desired to see how his men were faring. With the Abbot's words of praise for his solicitude ringing in his ears, he made his way back to the infirmary and the three Musketeers; his three best men; three best friends.

Light was beginning to fade and lamps were already flickering in the Infirmary, casting a warm glow throughout the long, narrow room that ws lined on two sides with beds. Aramis and Athos were adjacent to each other half way down on the left-hand side whilst Porthos was in a bed opposite.

"Good to see you, Captain," were the first words that reached him.

It was Porthos who had spoken. He was smiling, sitting propped up against a pile of pillows and eating from a bowl of stew.

"Not as good as it is seeing you wide awake and alert," Tréville declared, his grin warm and genuine. "You still have an appetite, I see." The brother who had been sitting by the bed rose and relinquished his place to the officer. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm starvin'; we 'aven't eaten for days. Didn't 'ave time to stop for supplies. I still 'ave a headache, but you know me, I 'ave a thick skull. At least my stomach's settled down at last." He took another mouthful of stew and chewed on it happily.

"Do you remember what happened once you got here to the Abbey?"

Porthos' brow creased. "Most of it, I think. We couldn't shake off the men who were followin' us so when they were headin' straight here, the Abbot showed us a hidin' hole in the Library. We'd just got in there when Athos decided he had to go somewhere."

"Have you any idea where he went?" Tréville was sure that he knew what the likely answer was after his talk with the Abbot.

"No, he refused to say but Aramis and I both knew he was goin' to put the Treaty somewhere. 'E said it would be safer if we didn't know. We didn't agree but off 'e went. An' then 'e never came back.

"Next thing we knew, Brother Laurence was comin' to us with Athos' stuff an' sayin' we had to help him, that he'd been beaten. He gave us some monks' robes to dress up in an' took us to where Athos was. We never got thechance to put 'im in his disguise. To cut a long story short, we got 'im out of where he was locked up an' then we had to fight our way out of there."

Tréville knew better than to press the big Musketeer for any more details at present; there would be time enough for that. Besides, he could well imagine the desperate fight for survival that followed within the confines of an Abbey building. It was sufficient that he was gradually piecing the story together, even if he was garnering that information from different sources. Each man had had his own experiences and shared them. The one who knew the most was still not waking, and Tréville looked across the room to where Athos lay still, the Infirmerer seated by his side. Having done all that he could for the unconscious Musketeer, the learned healer was quietly occupied in reading scripture.

Porthos saw where his Captain was looking and dropped his voice. "It was too close this time, Captain. We nearly didn't get to the tunnel out of the Abbey. Aramis was tryin' to keep Brother Laurence safe an' I was holdin' Athos up, tryin' to keep him movin' but 'e was so badly hurt, 'e could hardly walk. They were on us before we knew it. Aramis an' I 'ad the foresight to load the pistols before we left the hidey hole so we managed to bring some of 'em down but they were well armed too. I saw Aramis get hit an' stumble. Next thing, 'e was standin' there with his sword an' the Brother had picked up his dagger that he'd dropped."

He chuckled. "Laurence hadn't got a clue but I wouldn't 've wanted to get close to 'im. He was wavin' it around like a wild thing; if he'd ever stuck anyone with it, it'd be by pure chance. I'd still got 'old of Athos an' that's when one of 'em approached on our left an' got 'im in the side."

His dark eyes hardened. "That man didn't take many more breaths but I couldn't see what he'd done to Athos. I knew it had to be bad the way Athos cried out, but I couldn't stop. I 'ad to let 'im go an focus on the fight. Arammis was doin' 'is best but he was bleedin' hard." He shook his head bitterly. "I don't know 'ow we managed to get out of there, I really don't."

Whilst the Captain silently concurred with him on one level, he knew that blind rage would have taken over the big Musketeer at the thought of his wounded brothers and his instinctive need to protect them, so that an already dangerous man was driven to new heights of deadliness. He laid a conciliatory hand on Porthos' shoulder.

"You did well against all odds. You saved them then and got your brothers to the safety of the caves where you continued to protect them. I was worried that you were so determined to guard them at all costs, you weren't going to let me anywhere near."

Porthos managed a sheepish grin. "Sorry about that. The gang eventually found out where we were an' put up quite a fight. Didn't help matters when one of 'em got in a lucky shot and I was hit by the ricochet off a rock." He raised a hand and tentatively touched the bandage around his head, frowning. "Things get a bit muddled after that."

Tréville quickly filled in the missing details for the soldier, including the reminder that he had exhausted all his ammunition in fighting the enemy; it was a sobering thought.

"I'd like to see Brother Laurence," Porthos suddenly declared and Tréville's heart sank. "He obviously got our message to you. If he hadn't done that, we wouldn't have stood a chance. It's all because of 'im that we're still 'ere. He got us out the Abbey, knew about the caves and made that journey on 'is own. I'd really like to shake 'im by the hand and thank 'im."

Tréville hesitated. "I'm sorry, Porthos, but Brother Laurence is dead."

"What?" Porthos exclaimed, the dismay and disbelief clear on his face. "How? What happened to him?"

For the second time in a matter of hours, it fell to the Musketeer Captain to be the bearer of bad tidings and he was saddened by the devasting effect it had on the injured soldier.

"'E didn't deserve that," Porthos ground out, "not after what 'e did to 'elp us."

"No, he didn't," Tréville agreed, "and we will do all within our power to find those responsible."

It did little to placate the younger man and he continued to grumble until tiredness and an aching head took their toll and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Tr ville moved his chair so that, with his back against the wall, he could watch over all three Musketeers at the same time. Porthos began to snore softly, Aramis still fidgeted in the grips of his fever and Athos continued to lie silent and unmoving, a shadowy reflection of the man when he was fighting fit and his words and movements always seemed economical.

Eventually, Tréville succumbed to his own weariness and he slept sitting upright.

"Captain," a quiet voice from the other side of the room interrupted his slumber. It was the Infirmerer. "Athos is stirring."

Someone had covered the Captain with a blanket during the night and he had not known a thing. He must have been more exhausted than he had realised, especially as daylight streamed through the windows. It was strange that Claude had not come to awaken him.

Crossing the room, Tréville slid into another vacated seat.

"One of your men has been in twice. He said to let you sleep but I shall send word to him that you are now awake. I believe his name was Claude," the Infirmerer told him.

That explained things then. There would be time to be updated by the older Musketeer; for now, there was another more pressing matter.

"Athos? Athos?" he said softly. "Can you hear me?"

He watched as Athos' head began to move from side to side, his eyes remaining shut and his face pinched with intense pain. His breathing was ragged as he fought to suppress a groan.

"Give him this, it will help with the pain," the Infirmerer said at Tréville's left shoulder and handing out a goblet filled with some dark, herbal smelling concoction.

Sliding a hand beneath Athos' head, the Captain raised him a little and put the goblet to his lips. "Sip it slowly. No need to rush. It's for the pain," and he encouraged the injured man to drink it all before gently setting his head down upon the pillow once more. Athos' sigh was audible.

The Captain waited patiently for the medicine to begin taking effect and he could see the precise moment when Athos began to feel some relief for the lines around his eyes and mouth eased whilst his breathing became more regular.

Tréville cast a hurried look about him to see if anyone was close who might overhear what he had to say but the Infirmerer had moved to the far side of Aramis and was concentrating on assisting the monk in caring for the stricken Musketeer. From their snatched words that he could hear, the Captain surmised that Aramis' rampant fever had broken at last and he could begin to believe that all three of his men would survive the vicious attack against them.

He turned his attention to the man before him and laid a calloused, comforting hand on the forearm nearest to him as the young soldier became restless.

"Ssshh. You're fine. Stay still, you have a wounded side and do not want to aggravate it or pull the stitches."

Immediately, Athos obeyed, his eyes flickering open and Tréville was relieved to see some semblance of recognition in them.

"Ar'mis. Porthos."

The Captain smiled. "I should have wagered that they would be your first words; I could have made a fortune."

"Abbot …. might object." Athos gasped out the words and then allowed himself the luxury of a low groan at the effort. He tried to shift his position to be more comfortable.

Tréville wondered at the man's ability to make a droll comment at such a time and hoped that it was a positive sign but, already, the green eyes were sliding closed again.

"Athos, stay with me; I need you to tell me. Where is the Treaty?" There was an urgency in the Captain now as he realised that the draught supplied by the Infirmerer was not merely to kill the pain but probably contained some form of sedative.

Reluctantly, he shook Athos gently by the shoulder. "Did you hear me? The Treaty!"

Athis groaned again and, with eyes still shut, he murmured. "Abbey. Right. Three Musketeers."

"Yes, that's what you told me before." Tréville tried to curb the impatience in his voice. "What does it mean? I need you to give me more."

Suddenly, Athos looked directly at him, his right hand shooting out with surprising speed to grab Tréville's hand that still rested on his shoulder. The grip was devoid of its usual strength.

"Count … from the door …Abbey." There was no further clarification. Athos was no longer awake.

It was not much in addition to what he already knew but at least it was something and Tréville wasted no time in leaving the Infirmary, confident that his men remained in good hands.

Approaching the Abbey at an angle, he could see the massive double doors of oak at the west front but there was also another door on the south side and he wondered which one Athos was referring to when he instructed the Captain to count from the door.

He looked back at the buildings behind him that constituted the main living and working areas for the brothers, trying to ascertain which door Athos might have used to gain entry to the Abbey. Frustrated, he realised that it probably was influenced by whichever door Athos had used as an exit. The main buildings were a warren of rooms and corridors and he could not recall anything beyond the basic layout of the areas he had personally seen the day before. Where was the library where the secret hiding place was located? Had Athos left by the exit closest to the library or the Abbey itself? There was no way of knowing. This side door was most likely to be the entrance used by the monks when they came to the Abbey to observe Matins or Lauds. A shorter walk during the night hours of winter would be appreciated by all concerned.

Tréville hesitated. Would Athos think to use a side entrance? If the count to three was so significant, would a side entrance give a choice of whatever it was that was counted?

"Why couldn't you have stayed awake a little longer, Athos? Been a little clearer rather than leaving me with a massive mystery …. And a headache?" he grumbled, not meaning any of his displeasure. He was thankful that Athos was still alive, but he would need to have a conversation with him about his good intentions in protecting his brothers. If Porthos had known where the Treaty was hidden, the search would be nearing its conclusion.

He walked round to the west front, entered through the main doors and stopped dead as the enormity of his task hit him. The building was vast and what was he supposed to be counting? The columns, the lower windows or those of the clerestory, the statues, the tombs and effigies, wall sconces, saints or side chapels?

Where was he to start?

 ** _A.N._**

 ** _I confess to using a little 'writer's licence' on this occasion with the layout of the Abbey buildings and within the Abbey itself._**


	13. Chapter 13

_**Dear all,**_

 _ **Good job I'm sitting down with a glass of wine as I've surprised myself! Three chapters in four days!**_

 _ **Went out for first time today to see the nurse. Good news is that the toe is still there! No, seriously, antibiotics are killing the infection and the toe does look better.**_

 _ **Got a potentially unpleasant medical appointment on Friday morning with it though! Planning on going back to work tomorrow for the last 1.5 days.**_

 _ **Honestly, my life is a drama in itself. Thank you for all your support and well wishes. Wonder if 2019 will be different? (Not going to tempt fate by saying it can't be worse.**_

 _ **Not quite sure why but typing on Doc Manager, the layout is doing its own thing and I don't know how to correct it so I am pretending it's not happening.**_

 _ **I do apologise for any errors that have crept through. It doesn't matter how often I re-read or use grammar check, I always manage to miss something!**_

 _ **This is unashamedly a Treville focused chapter as he searches for the Treaty. Will he be successful? We'll be back with the boys soon.**_

 _ **Just a warning, there won't be another chapter in the next few days.**_

CHAPTER 13

Athos was nothing if not logical and, taking a deep breath, Tréville knew that all he had to do was to start thinking like Athos. Exhaling noisily, his cheeks puffing out, he knew that it all sounded so simple, but the reality was something different.

"So, Athos, I am inside the Abbey just as you said." It was not so much panic but a definite moment of doubt when he wondered if Athos had meant him to go from the door around the outside of the building, but he quickly dismissed that notion as impractical. The architecture was such that there would be nowhere suitable on the exterior, no niches within a man's reach when standing on the ground to secure the document and keep it safe from the elements.

"I am _inside_ the Abbey," he repeated as he surveyed the nave that stretched out before him. "Right-handed, always the right and you are right-handed, Athos."

Many were the conversations that had passed between the two men in the past that had involve the strategic; they had tossed ideas back and forth, rejecting some whilst developing and adjusting others. He respected the young man's insight, clarity of thought and general ability to solve problems and now he sustained a one-sided conversation as if the other Musketeer were standing next to him, trying to imagine what the response to his comments might be.

"You can fight just as well with the left hand but in writing and other things, the right is dominant so, instinctively, you have entered the building and gone to the right. That rules out half the building immediately," and he looked towards the left. "For now," he added ruefully and muttered a swift prayer that he was correct in his reasoning.

"Three Musketeers. You kept saying three, so it has to be a significant number but three what? What did you do when you came into this building, Athos? You would have been moving quickly, if not running, for you know the gang approaches and you have very little time. You want to get back to Aramis and Porthos, but if you are to be caught, you know that you must not be taken within the Abbey itself for that would narrow down the search for your attackers."

His eyes ranged over the interior again. "You are looking for an easy place for you but not one that is obvious. Thinking again about your lack of time, would you have run to the east end and the high altar area?" He shook his head as if he had listened to a reply. "Such an important document in the most important place in the Abbey? No, that _is_ the obvious."

He started moving, his boots ringing out on the stone flagged flooring as he passed the first two pillars and approached the third. "Then I will start with the next obvious and begin ruling them out."

Circling the third pillars, it was swiftly clear that there was no hiding place there. The pedestal was intact and the stone plain until it reached its capital which was far above his head.

Tréville retraced his steps to inside the front doors, determined that it would be his guide and starting point. His next idea was to inspect the flagstones themselves counting three in, studying the one there and then three to the right before stopping again. They showed no signs of having been disturbed since they were first laid, probably centuries before, and Athos would have had neither time nor tools to lift any.

He turned his attention to the lower windows and moved to the third one along. The beautiful, leaded stained glass depicted a number of saints and Biblical stories, the message of which eluded him as he did not recognise them and was unable to decipher the Latin script beneath some of them.

Tréville groaned aloud. "Please do not tell me that there is some clue in this window, Athos."

He could almost hear the derisive snort and see the raised eyebrow of the young Musketeer. "I know, where did you find the time to think about cryptic clues when you're running for your life? I confess I do not understand the innermost workings of your mind and would not put anything past you. You have the education for this but, given your current relationship with God, I doubt even you would use the Almighty for such divine inspiration."

"Talking to yourself now?" came a voice from behind him making him visibly jump.

"Claude! Good morning. Please do not creep up on me again; it could be dangerous."

"I can see that," the words were laced with sarcasm. "So dangerous you never even drew the weapon you're not wearing."

Aghast, Tréville held out his hands and looked down to where his weapons belt should be secured around his waist. He sighed.

"I left it in the infirmary," he admitted. "I was so eager to come here and …"

"Talk to yourself," Claude reiterated.

"If you must know, I am thinking aloud."

Claude nodded as if to humour him, but his expression remained sceptical.

Tréville was defensive. "I was trying to work out what Athos has done with the document. He's said some things but they're not clear. I am just attempting to work out what he did when he came in here."

"He's awake then?" Claude looked relieved.

"Not for long, hence my problem." He smiled. "All three of them are making some progress now."

"I'm glad to hear it." Claude watched as Tréville's attention went back to the window. "You want some help?"

"Not for now but thank you for offering. I'm thinking and attempting all sorts of things without any definite plan, so I'm best left to my own devices but if I become desperate, I'll shout for you."

Claude turned towards the door but halted. "Make sure you get something to eat."

"I will. Thank you." Tréville's eyes had not shifted. "Oh, Claude, how are the rest of the men? And the prisoners?"

"The men are rested, fed, cleaning weapons, guardin' the prisoners or tendin' the mounts. All is well."

It was now that Tréville, his expression hardened, turned ice blue eyes toward the other soldier. "There's one of the prisoners that's uninjured – Loret. Separate him and lock him up on his own. Say nothing to him but make sure the guard on him is secure."

"He's important then. Their leader?" Claude guessed.

The Captain nodded. "I will deal with him when I have finished here."

There was a determination and gravitas to his tone that left Claude in no doubt that it would be much better for Loret if he decided from the outset to co-operate. Whilst Tréville would never stoop to ill-treating a prisoner – and certainly not beat them as had happened to Athos – he had his methods of questioning and could bring pressure to bear in his own inimitable way.

The Captain waited until the door had closed on the departing Musketeer before resuming his search.

"Now, where was I?" He stared at the window and traced an imaginary line from its sill, down the wall and across the flor to the northern wall but there was nowhere in the empty space that anything could have been hidden.

He tilted his head back and scrutinised the clerestory. "Would you have had time to get up to the clerestory?" The walkway high above the floor of the nave led to a door in one of the towers and he crossed to a similar door at the base of the tower. It was locked.

"Well that rules that one out." He then noticed another door directly opposite but surmised that it was probably locked as well. If Athos had tried the first door and discovered it to be impassable, he was not likely to have wasted time attempting to get through its companion. "I'll try you later if all else fails."

"Let's try the tombs then," he decided and strode down the side aisle until he reached the third tomb with its worn effigy of a former abbot. Arrayed in his clerical robes, the stone figure's hands captured in an attitude of prayer displayed two missing fingers while on the face, the end of a formidable, long nose had somehow been broken off.

"Hope this doesn't reflect what you looked like when alive," Tréville said flippantly as he ran his warm hands over the cold stone, feeling for any movement that might indicate a concealed compartment. The tomb was set against the wall and although convinced that there was no place for a document, he crouched and continued to feel for the slimmest of gaps.

He rocked back on his heels and slapped the stone in frustration. "Think!" he chastised himself. "Athos did not have time to hunt for sliding doors and secret cupboards! He would want a recess or niche of some sort."

That left the side chapels – large enough spaces in their own right and he had hoped that it would not come to this.

The third one was dedicated to a saint he had never heard of and he stood in the opening surveying the structural design and decoration which were somewhat excessive and in sharp contrast to the two he had already passed, both of which had been much simpler in style.

Ahead of him stood the large, heavily carved and gilded table that served as the altar. On the top, massive pewter candlesticks flanked an equally huge crucifix of the same material. All three were standing before an ornately decorated triptych. This stained-glass window, garish in its colouring, depicted a military figure, a knight in full armour, standing before Saint Peter, seeking admission into Heaven as a reward for what he had achieved in life.

Two enormous paintings faced each other high on the side walls, each representing some Old Testament conflict; unusual choices for such a chapel but then Tréville saw the tomb to the right of the altar with two effigies lying side by side beneath a wooden canopy. The one furthest from him was a woman in attire that he guessed stemmed from the fifteenth century. Beside her lay her husband, clad in stone versions of his chainmail and armour. His hands clasped the hilt of his sword that lay down his body whilst at his feet was a shield, his heraldic symbols etched into the surface. This chevalier must have been the benefactor of the chapel and to the Abbey itself, expecting that his largesse would encourage the brothers to continue to say masses for his soul.

The chivalric theme continued around the remaining walls in the form of statues, about four feet in height - a dozen after a quick count – and all portraying saints and archangels as warriors of a similar time period to the knight.

"The third chapel and it belongs to a knight," Tréville murmured. "A knight; a Musketeer. Both have sworn oaths of allegiance to their king and country. Is this what you were thinking, Athos? Is this the link you were making?"

He breathed deeply, trying to quell his mounting excitement as he counted the statues to the right of the entrance and came to a halt before the third. It was beautiful: a young male of indeterminate age with a muscular physique; clean shaven and with wide, unseeing eyes that seemed to bore into Tréville. From the statue's back, there appeared two enormous wings engraved with an intricate feathering.

Garbed for war, the statue wore a small version of the barbute on its head, a cuirass and pauldrons, gauntlets and faulds. It leaned casually on the hilt of a long broadsword whose point rested on the plinth which was engraved with the name of the Archangel Michael.

Michael! In the Book of Revelation, he led God's army in battle against the Devil.

Was this what Athos was thinking? They were certainly in a battle now, against an unknown enemy determined to stop the agreement between France and Spain to avoid war. With the indiscriminate loss of life so far, he could well believe that behind the plotting was the Devil incarnate and the first step in defeating Satan himself would be finding the Treaty and delivering it to the King in Paris. It was interesting that he did not instantly include Richelieu as a recipient of the Treaty, but he still had a disquieting feeling about the Cardinal and there was a certain irony in the situation if this very public man of God was conducting a different business with a darker purpose in mind.

"So, Michael, are you guarding something for me?" Tréville whispered, not knowing why he was perpetuating an air of secrecy; he was completely alone but he still looked about him briefly to confirm that fact.

Slowly, carefully, he explored the figure, his fingers searching around the base. Propped against the Archangel's left hip and leg was his shield. Although firmly part of the statue, there was a gap behind it and Tréville's breath hitched. Kneeling, he pressed his head against the wall and tried to reach behind it, but the gap would not take his arm. Swiftly, he removed his doublet and pushed up his right shirt sleeve and tried again. It was enough for him to slide his arm through, his outstretched fingers feeling for anything. He grimaced at the touch of dust and cobwebs; no thorough cleaning had been done here in a long time.

There was nothing behind the shield on the plinth, but his disappointment was short-lived when he realised that there was a small recess in the wall like a shallow shelf behind the statue. He was at the wrong angle and could not see sufficiently but spread his fingers, desperately reaching within the recess.

He was about to give up when he felt something that should not be there; something that was neither wood nor stone. Leather! His heart was racing but he could not grasp the item. Athos was taller than him and, as a consequence, probably had a longer reach. He took a few deep breaths, pushed his face hard against the statue and stretched. There was a heart-stopping moment when he thought he had pushed the item further into the recess but, with his features contorting with the strain and a roar of frustration, he ignored the pain of the shield's imprint into his cheek and made a frantic snatch at the leather.

His eyes widened as he caught at the material, pulled and retrieved his arm. Collapsing back against the wall, he slid down to the floor next to the statue and turned the leather packet over in his hands. Rectangular, its long side matched his hand from fingertip to wrist and was bound with a fine, twisted cord. Sweat beaded his brow as he untied it and opened up the leather to reveal a thick, thrice-folded parchment. His hands were shaking as he unfolded it carefully, the importance of the document not escaping him.

The cursive script was neat, and the parchment decorated with ornately coloured images around the edges, but it was the clear signature of the Spanish King at the bottom with a small version of his seal that told Tréville all he needed to know.

He had found the Treaty.

 _ **A.N.**_

 _ **Barbute – 15th century helmet with a t- or y-shaped opening to enable sight and breathing!**_

 _ **Cuirass – breastplate**_

 _ **Faulds – bands linked together to protect the front waist and hips.**_


	14. Chapter 14

_**Dear all, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting for four months for the next chapter and I expect you have long forgotten the main crux of the story by now. It has been difficult coming back to it because of its associations with the past eight months. Has it really been that long? I moved back home mid-January but work on the house was only finished on April 1st. Long story! Now I have decorating to complete and bags/boxes to unpack.**_

 _ **It's time to get back to the story now that Treville has found the treaty hidden by Athos.**_

CHAPTER 14

Tréville, his mouth set in a grim line, strode along the corridor to the rooms where the two fit prisoners were housed.

"Loret?" he asked of his two men who stood guard outside the adjacent doors.

Without saying a word, one of the men, Dupont, unlocked and pushed open the door, standing aside to allow his Captain access to the man held within.

Nodding in acknowledgement, Tréville passed him and entered the room. He sensed the Musketeer move behind him to fill the doorway, ready to assist if the prisoner caused any problems or at least to block any attempt to escape.

Loret was sitting slumped on the side of the low, narrow bed but as soon as he saw the officer, he straightened and met Tréville's ice-cold scrutiny with a defiant stare. It was only in the face of the continued silence that his confidence began to waiver.

"Well?" he demanded, as if he were the one in control of the situation.

"I was just wondering," Tréville answered coldly, "who had given you the order to pursue and kill my men."

"Who says there was anyone orderin' me?" Loret said insolently, but Tréville was not fooled. The man was not going to divulge the identity of his employer if he could help it. "I might have thought it all up by myself."

"I doubt that," Tréville countered.

"What makes you say that?" Loret was immediately wary.

"What would make you get such a disorganised group of thugs together to scour the countryside in the hope that three Musketeers will pass by so that you can give chase because they might be carrying something of importance?"

Loret's eyes widened in feigned innocence. "You mean they _were_ carryin' somethin' important?"

His patience wearing thin, Tréville reached out in one deft move, caught Loret by the neck of his shirt, hauled him to his feet, swung him round and thrust him back against the wall. He held him there, the shorter man's toes just touching the ground and his expression suddenly losing its arrogance.

Loret squeaked in fear. "Help me," he begged of the Musketeer by the door, who had not shifted so much as a muscle.

Dupont shrugged. "Why should I do that? I haven't seen anything."

"He's goin' to kill me!"

"I might if you don't start co-operating. I haven't got the time or the inclination for your reluctance in telling me what I want to know," Tréville hissed into his face, their noses barely inches apart. "I could find any number of excuses as to why I found it necessary to slit your throat or gut you like the dog you are with my dagger."

As if to prove his point, Tréville released his hold. His weight firmly on the ground again, Loret breathed a short-lived sigh of relief, only to find the sharp edge of a dagger against his throat in the next instant.

"I do not credit you with the initiative or bravado to take on three highly skilled soldiers unless there was something worthwhile in it for you. The document they carried was of no worth to you personally, even if you knew what it was. Therefore, you must have been tasked with getting your hands on it for someone else, so you will quit your nonsense and tell me who that person is. What were you paid to run the risk?"

"They'll kill me if I tell you," Loret whined.

Tréville gave a false laugh. "And I thought I had made it clear what I would do to you if you didn't tell _me_! I think your current predicament is far more serious."

Loret hesitated; he was obviously considering what the Musketeer was threatening.

"Do you owe this person so much that you are willing to die in their stead and risk them escaping punishment for treason?"

"Treason?" Loret was panicking now. "I haven't committed any treason!"

"Oh but you have," Tréville insisted. "Have you any idea what the document was that the Musketeers were carrying to Paris?"

The prisoner shook his head wildly. "I didn't have to know, and I know when not to ask too many questions."

The Captain's brow furrowed. "Just tell me what your specific instructions were."

"An' if I do tell you? What's in it for me?" Loret wheedled.

"I don't think you are in any position to bargain," Tréville warned him, "but if you start helping rather than hindering, I can put in a good word for you and at least ensure that you don't lose your head."

"Is that all?" The wheedling turned to a whine.

"Is that not enough? If you think I am going to let you walk free after this, you are very much mistaken. Now, your instructions?"

Loret briefly hesitated, as if weighing up the pros and cons of finally co-operating with the Musketeer captain. He sighed – there was really no choice.

"There were three musketeers on the road to Paris. We were to stop 'em, get the document one of 'em was carryin' an' leave no witnesses."

Instinct told Tréville that something was not right in what he had just heard. "Three. That's what you were told? _Three_ musketeers?"

Loret was puzzled. "Yes, I …"

Tréville persisted in his line of questioning. "Were you informed that you were looking for three men or have you just said that number because that's how many you found?"

"Well, erm …"

"Think, man!" Tréville spat out but his frustration only served to make Loret flustered.

"I was told three. Yea, I'm sure of it: the likely route, when and the fact there were three of 'em, all musketeers." The man was desperate to please the Captain now, as if realising that he was divulging something of importance, although he had no idea what. If he co-operated, perhaps things would definitely go a little easier for him.

Once again, Tréville felt sick at what he had just learned. The only people who knew that number of musketeers were being sent on the mission were the three men directly involved, himself, the King and the Cardinal – who had, as he recalled, also gone as far as requesting them by name.

"Did you know their names?" He hardly dared breathe and slowly repeated his question. "Were you told their names?"

Loret shook his head vehemently, his eyes registering alarm as he realised that the questioning had entered a new phase.

"No, not their names but she described them a bit to me and said …"

"She?" Tréville interrupted, stepping closer at the revelation. "What 'she'? Your employer is female? What's her name?"

"I don't know!"

"How did you contact her then?"

"I - I didn't. She came to me; said she'd heard of me an' some of the jobs I'd done. Didn't seem too strange as most of the work I get is from word of mouth, same as when I'm lookin' for others to work for me."

"Tell me more about her. What did she look like?" Tréville ordered.

"Well, she was a beauty, no arguin' with that," Loret began. "She was quite tall, more so than most women. I remember thinkin' that straight off. I'm not much good at guessin' ages but she was probably late twenties. An' she had masses of thick, dark hair, all in curls about her shoulders. Spoke nicely too an' her clothes were expensive. She was a lady of quality, I could tell that, an' she smelt of flowers. What I remember most though is those green eyes. She looked at you and you felt 'er eyes go straight through you, but I swear she never told me any name."

Tréville nodded distractedly as he tried to link the limited description with anyone he had encountered at court or seen in the company of the Cardinal, but he was unsuccessful. He was willing to accept that Loret had told him everything the man thought he knew but, with some carefully directed questioning, there might still be more that could be gleaned. He softened his approach so that it sounded less like an interrogation.

"So where did you meet this mystery woman? In a house?"

Loret shook his head. "First time was in a tavern. She looked out of place- drew quite a few stares - but it didn't seem to bother 'er at all."

"Which tavern?" It was unlikely to be productive, but questions asked in the right quarter might produce someone else who remembered the woman and could verify Loret's account or add some new detail.

"The White Lion out along the south bank."

"You said the first time. There were others?"

"Yeah, one more. When I first met 'er, she told me I needed to find others; she reckoned a dozen in all would be enough. We'd outnumber 'em. She said they were good at their job. She told me what we'd be paid, half when we set off and the rest when the job was done, she said there might even be a little bit extra if the job was done right and the musketeers were definitely dead, not just wounded. I got the feelin' she didn't much like musketeers. Sorry, no offence meant," he swiftly added as he saw Tréville stiffen.

"Go on," the officer prompted.

"She said there wasn't much time as the musketeers had already left Paris for wherever they were goin' an' we'd to be in place to get 'em on the way back. I 'ad to find the men, prepare everythin' and we were to meet 'er early evenin' outside the city gates two days later. She would give me last instructions, such as where we were headin' an' what the men looked like, an' the first payment."

"Was she alone?"

Loret nodded.

Tréville sucked in a breath. Who was this mystery woman? She had some money if her clothing and bearing were anything to go by, but she was apparently comfortable going into a tavern and riding the streets of Paris unescorted. Either she was totally ignorant of the dangers in which she placed herself - a woman of means on her own would be easy prey to cutthroats and robbers – or she was more than capable of taking care of herself, and he was convinced the latter was the correct answer.

So, she probably had the ability to mix with the higher ranks of society without question and the lowest of the low, hardly a good recommendation for a 'lady' unless …..

He smothered a groan. She was an agent for someone, the middle man. He wryly corrected himself – middle woman! But why did she have a dislike for all things musketeer? Loret suggested that there was something personal in this arrangement as well. Tréville dismissed the notion; he had to be reading too much into this. A female spy. They were not unheard of as they certainly did not arouse suspicion for few considered it as likely employment for a woman. He would not put it past Richelieu to have someone like her in his pay and he was now convinced that the Cardinal was behind the attack on his men. France's First Minister was the only one who knew details of the mission and had the opportunity to pass them on.

But why? What was his reason? He had been in full support of the negotiations and the Treaty.

Or had he? Who knew what went on inside the churchman's head? He always claimed to act in the best interest of France so why would he want to stop the Treaty with Spain?

So many questions made Tréville's head ache. All he knew was that he currently could not trust the Cardinal at all.

Loret shuffled uncomfortably, drawing the Captain's attention back to him and another question.

"So where did you recruit your comrades?"

"Here and there," Loret was evasive. "I know the right places to go for those sorts of men. Criminals and ex-soldiers, the lot of us."

"And which of those two categories are you?" As well as being intrigued by the man standing before him, Tréville was hoping to manoeuvre him into divulging information by catching him unawares with random questioning. It had also served well in the past to alternate the tactics of being threatening and then appearing calmer, more friendly. He had known it wrong-foot a prisoner under interrogation on many occasions and he welcomed any strategy that did not make him resort to actual violence. He was a soldier, not an inquisitor and, surprising to some, did not easily condone torture as a method of gaining intelligence. He had long made the decision that he did not want to know how Richelieu gleaned a multitude of his facts. It was a point on which he was happy to differ.

Loret looked offended. "Ex-soldier. I've seen action." His back straightened. "I was at La Rochelle."

"So were we," Tréville countered. It crossed his mind that Loret was lying to impress him for the 1627 siege against the Huguenot stronghold was common knowledge. He was just about to ask for the man about his regiment.

"I know," Loret said. "I was in Schomberg's reinforcements that came to relieve you against the English."

Tréville raised an eyebrow; maybe Loret was speaking the truth and had been present in the fight against the English forces under the hapless Duke of Buckingham but he still resolved to test him further.

"It was an ignominious retreat by the English to Sablanceau," he declared and immediately saw his prisoner frown.

"I don't like correctin' you, but the English retreated the opposite way, to Loix in the west. We'd cut off their route to Sablanceau."

Tréville gave a thin smile. "You are right of course. How could I make that mistake? We wanted victory over the enemy, but a lot of Englishmen lost their lives that day because of bad judgement."

"It was that damned causeway that did me," Loret announced. "I was one of the first across that causeway through the marshes after them. Hadn't long got to the other side when I was shot in the leg and went down. Ended the battle and my life as a soldier."

There was too much detail for Loret not to have been there in the midst of the conflict. Tréville had seen the limp when the man walked but thought he had sprained an ankle or something similar whilst trying to escape. He certainly had not received any injury from the musketeers that had shed his blood. The Captain could guess only too well what had happened to Loret after that; he had seen it all too often when a career soldier was forced to retire. More often than not, there was little financial aid or other care for a veteran.

"So you have done little since except sell your skills to the highest bidder?"

"A man has to live," Loret sounded bitter. "an' it's certainly not to the one who pays the most. All too often, those sorts of people want a serious job done for as little as possible. That's what made this one so attractive, even what I got as an advance was more than I get for most jobs."

"That causeway led to carnage," Tréville acknowledged after a pause.

"But word was you lot had it tough in Saint Martin," Loret said, not without sympathy; they were speaking now as soldier to soldier.

"We were close to surrendering," Tréville admitted. "Negotiations had begun when you arrived."

"It was lucky we got there at all. We were all camped around La Rochelle when we got the word that we were movin' out in a hurry an' sailing for the island. Rumour had it that a man had swum from Ré to the mainland to tell the King you all needed 'elp. I never knew whether to believe it." His voice trailed off and he looked expectantly at the Captain.

"It's true," Tréville confirmed. "He was one of my men."

"A very brave man," Loret said in awe. "That was some swim."

"Indeed. One man drowned and another was captured by the English. I don't know what happened to him afterwards."

Loret looked awkward. "Sorry. Were they your men too?"

"No," answered the Captain, " and part of me is thankful but it doesn't deny the fact that two other brave men were lost."

"Still, you must've been proud that it was your man who saved the day," Loret grinned. "He was a hero and if I'd met 'im, I'd have shaken his hand. Because of him, we saw off the English."

"I was very proud of him and I still am," Tréville declared, watching Loret carefully. The man was genuine in his respect and the cruel irony was not lost on Tréville.

"He's still a musketeer? I'm glad to hear it. Serve with a man like that an' you know he's got your back."

Loret was delighted even as the Captain reflected on the bizarre turn this interview was taking. Tréville moved towards Dupont and stood to one side.

"Come with me," he said to Loret over his shoulder as he made a decision.

"Sir?" Dupont looked worried.

"It's fine. You can bring up the rear. I have no doubt that, between us, we can prevent him from escaping," he reassured the Musketeer who took his pistol from his belt and gestured with it for Loret to move.

Bemused but eager to comply, Loret got to his feet and scuttled after the tall musketeer officer who led the way down the corridor and through the doorway to the infirmary.

The prisoner skidded to a halt when he saw two of the men whom he'd been pursuing sitting either side of the third who lay, eyes shut, in the bed between them. The two leapt to their feet, clearly angry.

"Captain!" growled the big one. The expression on his face indicated what he would do to Loret if he got his hands on him and the prisoner subconsciously took a step closer to the officer.

"What's he doing here?" demanded the other.

"Stand aside, the pair of you. It's fine; trust me."

The two looked at each other, glared at Loret, glanced back at Tréville, then down at the man lying between them before sharing another look that seemed to silently communicate so much. The shorter soldier shrugged and the two moved away from their friend.

"Come," Tréville instructed, pushing Loret slightly so that he approached the bed.

"He's the one we caught and questioned," Loret admitted.

"The one you beat unconscious," came a voice from behind him, the anger and hatred evident in every syllable.

"Enough, Porthos," Tréville said, his voice strangely soft but the other man fell silent. "Yes, Loret, he is the one you and your men beat relentlessly. He is one of the three you were ordered to hunt and kill. His name is Athos, his friends here are Porthos and Aramis. Fortunately for you, I found all three of them alive, though with differing degrees of injury."

His voice and expression turned cold. "Believe me, if any one of them had died, you would not be standing here now. I would not have bothered taking you back to Paris, you would have breathed your last out there where we found you and I would have done it myself."

Loret swallowed hard; he did believe Tréville completely. He watched as the officer laid a hand with surprising gentleness on the forehead of the injured young man, whose face still bore the evidence of the physical abuse he had endured from Loret and his men.

"You asked about the musketeer who made it to the mainland and said he was a very brave man, claimed you wanted to shake his hand." Tréville straightened and fixed Loret with his piercing blue eyes. "I suggest that you wait until he wakes up and can fully appreciate your gesture. No doubt he has plenty to say to you too."

Loret's mouth fell open as he absorbed what the officer was telling him. His head snapped round to look down at the man and realised the significance of what he had done – and nearly done. He had not known if the rumours about the swimmer had been true but hoped they were and, in accepting them, he had elevated the unnamed soldier to a position of near hero-worship. To find the man existed, had done the deed and so turned the tide of a potential French defeat by the English had made him proud, even when that final conflict had ended his own military career.

Now, he stood beside that same man, saw the injuries he and his men had inflicted – for money, no less, and certainly not honour. He'd sought to kill the man and his friends. For what? A document that meant little to him. Tréville had mentioned treason. How had that come to pass? He had been a soldier, loyal in his service to king and country. He had never contemplated treason!

He had lost everything that he had once held dear, including pride and respect in himself. In his struggle to survive, he had sacrificed integrity, made excuses for himself and blamed everyone else and in so doing, he had almost murdered a true son of France, a man so brave that everything Loret had ever done in his life paled into insignificance. There was a time when he had dreamed of being as courageous as the man who lay before him.

All he felt now was shame. How could he have fallen so low?

Tears of worthlessness burned his eyes and his legs gave way. He felt the hand of someone steadying him and lowering him onto one of the vacated seats. Tréville.

He deserved everything that was coming to him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Greetings to you all from a somewhat cold and blustery Bank Holiday Monday in the UK! (Complete opposite to Easter.)**

 **It's been a bit of a momentous past ten days really.**

 **Sir Mark Rylance in 'Shakespeare at the (Westminster) Abbey', Tom Burke in 'Rosmersholm', wonderful times spent with different friends, a 'Mary Queen of Scots' monologue at Peterborough Cathedral and two films at the cinema.**

 **All these paled into insignificance though when, on Tuesday 30th April, I formally submitted my resignation in order to concentrate on the writing (aka retirement!) with effect from the end of August.**

 **I will be celebrating that date in the US at the start of a 3-month tour with the added incentive of hoping to get a non-fiction book out of my travels. After the past year, I need some 'space' and I feel calmer and more settled than I have done for a long while.**

 **But I can't leave Treville and the Inseparables. I HAVE to get this story wrapped up sooner rather than later as the ideas keep coming, the notebooks keep 'breeding' and the hunt for more appropriate 'R' nouns continues! I'm always open to suggestions!**

CHAPTER 15

I

When Athos displayed no sign of waking any time soon, Loret was escorted back to the room doubling as his make-shift cell. Tréville could still feel the anger emanating from his two men and he turned to confront them.

"I know you are unhappy, and I will explain all but not until something else happens first." He raised a hand to silence Porthos who had opened his mouth to interrupt.

The Captain stood, hands on hips, as he studied Aramis carefully. The marksman, a deathly white, swayed unsteadily.

"I am glad to see that your fever has broken at last but I doubt you should be out of your bed; you can hardly stay on your feet. If Porthos were not acting as a prop, you would probably be flat out on the floor. So, back into bed immediately and that is an order, soldier."

Whilst the imperative might have sounded gruff, both Porthos and Aramis detected the undertone of concern and could see the anxiety in the officer's lined face. Aramis was not in a fit state to protest and meekly allowed himself to be helped back to his bed by Porthos.

"I did not have the authority to keep him in place although I tried," said a soft voice. Tréville had not realised that an elderly brother from the monastery had been standing in the shadows all the time and when he stepped forward, the officer recognised him as the one who had spent much of the time tending Aramis.

"I'm sure you did, Brother …?"

"Godwin," the man replied. "Brother Godwin." He chuckled gently. "Your men are very headstrong, Captain. Is it a requirement of Musketeers?"

Trévkille rolled his eyes dramatically. "Not specifically but these three have turned it into an artform all their own."

Godwin laughed again at the comment. "Then I think I will leave the formidable Captain with his formidable men and seize the opportunity to take a break whilst they are not alone. Do not hesitate to call me should the need arise."

Tréville managed a smile and nodded in acknowledgement. He watched the brother depart and then grabbed a wooden chair to set beside Aramis' bed. He sat, undoing the lower buttons of his coat and stretching out his legs, acutely aware that wo pairs of eyes studied him in simmering silence.

"I know that you are angry that I brought Loret in here but hear me out."

With that, he quickly repeated the discussion he had had with the prisoner, satisfied when he heard their gasps as he revealed Loret's admiration for the one who had swum to the mainland.

"It does not excuse him, but he is remorseful with the realisation of what he has done to his sworn hero. Whilst he is discomforted, we may use it to our advantage and get more information from him."

"But I thought you said he had told you all he knew?" Aramis frowned.

"That is what he believes, and it may be so, but it is possible that he has temporarily forgotten something or does not realise its significance. Anyway, whilst he is in awe of Athos, he could further betray his employer."

"The woman, you mean?" Porthos asked.

"I doubt he knows anything about the person behind her," Tréville confirmed.

"So how do we find out who that is or who she is for that matter?" Aramis could not hide his frustration.

Tréville hesitated, for he did not want to divulge his worrying suspicions that Richelieu was involved; not yet. "I have no compunctions about using him as bait to try to draw her out."

"Set a trap to catch a rat," Porthos muttered.

"But surely he'll be imprisoned when we get back to Paris?" Aramis tried to sit up but Porthos automatically reached out to hold him back against the pillows.

"I am sure I can work out something," Tréville answered cryptically, pleased that they knew better than to pursue the subject. Besides, he had no idea at that moment as to how he would best use the prisoner to achieve his aim. He decided to change the subject.

"Speaking of Paris, I intend returning tomorrow morning with the men and prisoners." He patted his chest where he had secreted the leather case inside his coat. "I have found where Athos hid the Treaty and I must deliver it to the King in all haste. You, however," and he fixed Aramis with a stare, "will remain here with Athos in the care of the brothers until the pair of you have recovered sufficiently."

Aramis did not have the chance to object.

"No!" came a rasping voice and, as one, they turned their attention to the battered figure who was trying to push himself up on one elbow. Achieving that much, Athos groaned and stayed there, breathing hard and glaring at his bed as if it were to blame, the anger at his inability to command his own body oozing from every pore.

Tréville sighed. Why did the three of them have to make everything so difficult?

"No to what?" he demanded, pretending not to understand as he changed seats to sit beside Athos. He, too, could be difficult when he wanted.

"No, I am not staying here," Athos ground out from between clenched teeth, green eyes trying to intimidate the officer without success.

Tréville pulled a face to smother the amused smile that threatened to betray him. Athos could be exceedingly obstinate, but it was hard to take him seriously right now when he was lacking the stamina to move and grimacing in pain. At least his second eye was opening, even if it was little more than a slit.

"I think that is highly unlikely. You could not sit on a horse for the journey."

"You could tie me to the saddle," Athos insisted.

It was interesting, Tréville mused, that he had not suggested riding double with someone.

"And aggravate your wound? I think not. I am sure that Aramis would have something to say about that. Besides, he is in no fit state to ride either," the Captain insisted.

"A cart," Athos suggested. "You can take us back in a cart."

"That's how you brought us here," Porthos added helpfully, although details of the journey were unclear as he had felt so nauseous.

"I think the abbey only has the one and we cannot deprive them of its use for several days," the Captain said evasively.

"I'm sure they would not mind," Aramis said.

"I'm sure they wouldn't," Tréville agreed, "but I am not going to ask them. I cannot spend the journey worrying about how you two are faring. We would not be able to travel at speed and I must get to Paris with the Treaty."

"You found it?" Athos was suddenly more alert. "Thank goodness."

"Indeed. The fact that you had not told these two where you had hidden it and that you only spoke in riddles to me is a matter of grave concern. Suppose you had been killed? What of the Treaty then? We will discuss this further when you are recovered."

Athos looked suitably abashed at the mild rebuke, enough that Tréville felt the stirrings of guilt. He tried to ease the sting of his censure, the corners of his mouth twitching as he added wryly, "It worries me that I am starting to think like you."

It occurred to him that he could order his men to stay and recuperate - even Athos and Aramis would be unlikely to disobey him in that event – but the door suddenly opened and Brother Godwin appeared, his face ashen and his voice breaking in poorly concealed grief.

"Captain Tréville, the Father Abbot requires your presence. Some more of your men have arrived from Paris – with Brother Laurence."

The officer leaped to his feet and hurried out after the monk without saying another word.

"What's all that about?" Aramis asked. "Why didn't Laurence come back with the Captain?"

Porthos was the only one of the three who knew the truth and he chewed uneasily on his bottom lip as he wondered how he could break the news.

II

But Athos had seen both his reaction and that of the Captain and, with enormous effort, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, pain flaring in his side for the last medication he received had ceased to be effective. Sweat beaded his brow and his cheeks puffed out with his concentrated breaths as he slowly swung his feet over the side of the bed. He sat there as the lights danced on the periphery of his vision and he wondered if he would pass out before the ignominy of being sick with the pain.

Hands gripped him by the shoulders.

"Where d'you think you're goin'?"

Porthos.

"What's happening?" Athos gasped. "Help me outside."

"Don't be silly. You can't …" but Athos clung to one of Porthos' arms to haul himself to his feet.

"Fine, I'll do it myself." Pushing Porthos out of the way, he stumbled towards the door in bare feet, one hand pressed against his bandaged side.

"Damn fool! Wait!" and Porthos, grabbing up a blanket, rushed after the lurching figure to throw it around his shoulders. "You'll catch your death," he scolded. "You're only in your braies."

"Wait for me!" a voice called from behind .

Porthos managed to snatch a glance backwards over his shoulder as Aramis struggled to join them.

"Not you as well. Stay there; I can't cope with the pair of you. Lookin' after your hides is turnin' into a full time job," Porthos complained but without any conviction.

Meanwhile, Athos was not so much walking as throwing himself from piece of furniture to door frame to corridor wall to window sill, trailing blanket in his wake until he had left it behind. Eventually reaching the external door to the courtyard, he leaned against the cold stonework and surveyed the scene before him.

Five newcomers – all of whom he instantly recognised - held the reins to horses or steadied the team that had pulled one of the garrison's carts. A sixth Musketeer, Torterue, stood to one side in muted conference with Tréville, Abbot Theobold and Claude. More Musketeers, those who had accompanied the Captain on his rescue mission, stood with monks in a semblance of an honour guard between the back of the cart and the main door to the Abbey as four other brothers slid a stretcher from its conveyance.

As Athos saw the carefully wrapped body carried in respectful silence, he realised what had happened.

For whatever reason, the young novice who had befriended the three of them, helped them to safety and taken a risk in carrying Athos' message to the garrison in Paris was dead. Had Athos not given him the instruction, allowed him to remain within the sanctuary of the Abbey, he would still be alive to pursue his calling.

"Nooooo!"

Heads turned to see who had emitted the anguished cry. With sweat from his efforts stinging his eyes, agony searing his side like a fiery brand and a sense of overwhelming guilt, Athos' rebellious legs gave way and he slumped to the ground before Porthos could stop him.

III

"And there you have it," Tréville finished softly, having recounted to Athos all that he knew surrounding the murder of Brother Laurence once the collapsed Musketeer had been carried back to his bed, despite his weak protestations. Aramis and Porthos sitting together on the neighbouring bed, listening again to the Captain's explanation and watching their brother absorb what he had learned.

"And nothing is known of his murderer or why he was killed?" Athos pressed.

The Captain shook his head. "Investigations continue but we are no further forward. He had never been to the city; perhaps he was too naïve and trusting or merely fell foul of opportunist robbers."

"He had nothing to steal. Why would anyone target a novice who was following an oath of poverty?" Athos sounded bitter and understandably so.

Tréville had asked himself the very same question and he waited to see if Athos would draw a similar conclusion. It did not take long.

"He must have been killed because he was sent to Paris; I am responsible for getting him involved."

"You could not have known what would happen, none of us could," Tréville said, knowing that his attempted reassurance was likely to be ignored. "There are too many people determined to prevent this Treaty from being ratified and they are prepared to stop at nothing. They do not care how many victims they leave in their wake – we have seen that."

"We cannot stop them if we do not know who they are," Athos observed sadly.

Tréville took a deep breath. "We know Loret had dealings with an unidentified woman, but she must be the intermediary. She would not stand to gain much from negotiations breaking down."

"A woman?" Athos questioned.

"From all that Loret has told me, she is accomplished in what she is doing and has taken measures to ensure that he knows nothing that can trace things back to her. However, I am formulating a plan, but I am not ready to talk about it just yet."

He pushed himself to his feet, weariness etched into his features. "You must rest, and I must attend a funeral." He looked down on his three men. "I will be back to see you all after the evening meal," and he headed for the door.

"Captain?" Athos called out, stopping him in his tracks. "You do not have to borrow the Abbey cart now for we can use the one from the garrison. Aramis and I will not have to remain here after all."


	16. Chapter 16

**Dear all, thanks for the comments on the last chapter. Here's a little, lighter interlude for you. Apologies if any typos have crept through.**

 **Treville does have his hands full!**

CHAPTER 16

I

Tréville stood at the end of the adjoining beds, arms folded and blue eyes blazing as he continued to unleash the loud tirade.

Porthos could not fathom how long he and the others had been on the receiving end of this haranguing but his biggest concern was how much longer the Captain might be able to sustain it for his face was bordering on puce and the veins stood out on his neck. It was surely not good for the man at his age but Porthos knew better than to voice this specific concern.

His eyes shifted to where Brother Godwin stood to one side, busying himself with folding clean bedlinens but the monk's smile of amusement was evident as the berating of the young men continued. Porthos exhaled noisily, his ears ringing as he tried to endure the lambasting.

Tréville heard and rounded on him. "You have something you want to say?"

"No … I … that is …" Porthos was at a loss for he really did not want to share anything.

"Good because I haven't finished with you yet; any of you!"

Porthos frowned as the words finally came to him, words in his own defence. Brotherhood might usually mean 'one for all and all for one' but as far as he was concerned, it had its limits, especially when his head was pounding. He was unsure as to whether it was the remains of his concussion or the incredible volume the Captain seemed intent upon reaching. Whichever it was, he wanted to disassociate himself from the other two who were going out of their way to be argumentative. It was _their_ fault that Tréville was beside himself with anger. Perhaps their injuries were affecting their brains as well as their bodies. Aramis was bad enough but throw Athos into the mix with his immovable recalcitrance and there was no telling how all of this was going to be concluded.

"But why are you shouting at me? I haven't done anything. I can sit on a horse and ride to Paris tomorrow. It's not me being awkward." Even as he gave voice to his thoughts, Porthos knew that he sounded like a petulant child and that was far from the impression he wanted to exude at this particular moment.

"Awkward!" Tréville bellowed. "Awkward? I'll give you awkward. I don't know how you manage it between you, but you three take awkward to a new level each and every time. I have never known such obstinate, resistant, unco-operative, stubborn, defiant, insubordinate, disobedient, rebellious individuals as you three!"

"Actually, they all mean the same thing," Athos dared to mutter and Porthos stared at him, wide-eyed at this foolhardy bravado. If Athos had not been injured and sitting propped up in bed, there was no telling what his sanction would be and Tréville apparently held a similar view.

"Do you have a death wish?" he asked Athos through clenched teeth.

Porthos closed his eyes and groaned, wondering how much worse this could become and willing his brother to stay quiet. Perhaps he was developing a fever and that was the cause of his recklessness.

"Well?" Tréville demanded when the younger man did not answer.

"No," Athos declared. He drew breath as if he were about to say something else, but he seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth again.

"I would never have guessed!" Tréville continued, not finished yet. "Do I have to remind you that you were severely beaten and slashed with a blade across your side? That Aramis was shot and developed a fever that finally broke less than twenty-four hours ago? That Porthos was concussed? Is your brain so addled by some undetected injury that you manage to have forgotten that?"

Athos shook his head just as Aramis snorted in amusement. At Tréville's withering glare, he tried to smother it with a burst of coughing, only to wince when it jarred his wounded shoulder.

"Then I should not need to repeat myself, but I will say it nonetheless. Whilst Porthos can ride, neither you nor Aramis can sit on a horse. You need to give yourselves the chance to recover properly before you move."

"But the cart is going back to Paris. Why can Aramis and I not travel in it? After all, we want to go in the same direction."

Tréville sighed. Athos was nothing but tenacious; the Captain had to credit him with that at least.

"I have to get the Treaty back to the King; you know that. I want to make good time on the journey. If you were being carried in the cart, you would be uncomfortable and in pain. We would have to go slower and possibly make repeated stops, none of which I want."

Athos was still not about to give up.

"We do not have to travel with you, thereby slowing you down. We can travel at a speed best suited to the weakest of us, but we would be travelling in the right direction at least. You have enough musketeers to spare some to escort us.

"Besides, there are still three remaining prisoners who are injured. Two of them might be able to ride on horseback but the third is as incapacitated as we are, if not more so. Would you have him remain here also? In which case, Musketeers would have to stay to guard him for if Aramis and I are not well enough to travel, then we are not well enough to watch him. It is a task we can hardly ask of the brothers in the Abbey."

There was nothing in Athos' tone that might suggest continued insubordination; he was, after all, merely making a practical observation but Tréville's face turned a darker hue.

"I could order the pair of you to stay here but I might as well save my breath for all the good it will do! The only alternative is to speak to Brother Godwin."

Hearing the sudden mention of his name caused the monk to halt what he was doing, and he looked towards the Captain.

"I am sure that somewhere in his bottles of concoctions he must have a purgative or emetic that would keep you in in your beds. Perhaps both!" and with that, the irate officer stormed out of the infirmary.

"You wouldn't!" Aramis called after him. He looked at the other two in panic. "Tell me he wouldn't."

Porthos shrugged, not sure what to think.

"Of course he wouldn't," Athos added, hoping that he sounded more sure than he felt.

"Don't tempt me," Tréville threatened, reappearing in the open doorway. "Brother Godwin, a word," and he turned on his heel, leaving as abruptly as he had arrived.

Three pairs of worried eyes settled on the monk who gave them a weak smile before hurrying after the Musketeer Captain.

"He wouldn't," Athos repeated, but this time he definitely lacked his earlier conviction.

II

"And you are sure these will work?" Tréville asked some time later.

He was leaning against a table in a small room near the infirmary. It was adorned with bunches of herbs and other plants picked from the Abbey garden and they were suspended hung from the ceiling to dry. Shelves were well-stocked with various sized glass containers of different coloured liquids and the table itself was laid out with the accoutrements necessary for making medicines.

The Captain held two bottles in his hands and studied their contents.

"Oh definitely," Godwin hastened to reassure him. "I will give you more than enough of both."

"And which is which?" Tréville asked again for clarification.

"The paler one in your right hand is for Aramis; he will not need much. Half of that in the same amount of water should suffice."

Tréville held up the bottle in his left hand to the light. "And this is for Athos?"

"Indeed. I would advise that he swallow the entire contents and that it need not be watered down for its effects to be longer lasting."

"Thank you, Brother Godwin. You have been a great help," Tréville said grimly.

"You are most welcome, Captain. It is no trouble. Perhaps I should settle the patients for the night." Brother Godwin gave the officer a conspiratorial smile.

"And when will these be administered?"

"Within thirty minutes of your proposed departure. They will take effect very quickly."

Tréville nodded in satisfaction. "Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have much to prepare before tomorrow."

III

When Tréville entered the infirmary the following morning, he found all three Musketeers up and dressed. Porthos was readjusting the sling worn by Aramis to support his shoulder and arm. When he saw the Captain, the marksman greeted him warily.

"Morning," Tréville responded briskly. "I trust you slept well?"

"A little," Aramis admitted.

"What about you?" he asked Porthos. "Are you sufficiently rested to ride?"

"Of course, Captain. I'll have no problem," Porthos insisted.

"I'm glad to hear it." Tréville glanced towards Athos who sat on the side of his bed, hunched over and his face grey from the exertion of getting into his uniform. "I see you are still intent upon making the journey back to Paris today."

"Naturally." The reply was quiet, expressionless. "The brothers have been faultless in their hospitality, but I do not wish to be left here; I want to go home."

Godwin chose that moment to make his entrance, bearing a tray of three pewter cups, the first of which he handed to the one prisoner left in the infirmary. The other two, on examination, were deemed fit enough to sit on horses to make the return journey to Paris and had been removed to a temporary cell the previous evening.

Aramis was next to receive his medicine and he eyed it with suspicion and sniffed at it, the Captain's threat of purgatives still uppermost in his mind.

Tréville sighed. "You can drink; it's quite safe. Brother Godwin has prepared a pain draught for you and given me a supply should you need more on the way back."

Athos, having been given his cup, watched as Aramis first took a mouthful, smiled when he recognised the potion and downed the rest quite happily.

"It's fine," he reassured his brother. "I have made this before; it is quite palatable."

"Nothing you make is palatable," Athos grumbled and raised the cup to his lips. He drank the mixture in one, but his eyes squeezed shut and he shivered at the taste. "It's foul!" he gasped. "You have a strange idea of palatable."

Aramis frowned . "I don't understand. It really is quite pleasant."

Athos stared down at his cup and then at Tréville who stood watching him, thumbs hooked in his belt and a knowing smile on his face.

"You gave me something different," Athos said accusingly, worried that the Captain had followed through with his threat and administered something that would upset his stomach, thereby rendering him incapable of making the journey.

"Naturally." The Captain deliberately echoed what he had said. "As you are insisting on returning to Paris today, I want you to have as comfortable a journey as possible, so you have the same pain draught with a little added extra. You should sleep all the way and feel nothing. I have more to give you should you stir and sufficient to knock out Aramis if he finds he need it."

He moved to the younger man, took him by the shoulders and pushed him back onto the bed. His face and voice softened. "Now, lie back and go to sleep. We will come and collect you when we are ready to depart. It won't be long."

Athos' eyes were already growing heavy and his tongue felt too large for his mouth. "You promise?" he mumbled. "Please don't leave me here."

Tréville patted his arm gently. "I still think it is inadvisable and am concerned that it might well aggravate your injuries, but I will take you with me. That I promise you."


	17. Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

I

In the end, the journey was not as onerous as Tréville had at first feared and they made good time, pressing the horses as fast as they dared with the cart in the midst of the column. Apart from Loret, the other prisoners were merely adequate horsemen and one took a tumble when the terrain became more uneven. He was not injured but Tréville refused to take any more risks that might delay them further and therefore ordered that he be accommodated with the wounded men. Accompanying him to the rear of the cart, the officer took the opportunity to check on the injured.

"I'm fine," Aramis reassured him when asked, but the Captain did not believe him for the lines of pain around his eyes told a different story; he was suffering with the repeated jolting of the cart.

"Do you want some more of the pain draught?" Tréville offered.

Aramis shook his head. "It is a little too soon for that. I will take some when he begins to stir," and he nodded towards Athos.

Deferring to the marksman's knowledge of herbal remedies, Tréville nodded and looked at Athos who, curled into a foetal position, slept on undisturbed in a couple of blankets nestled in a bed of straw.

"He looks comfortable," Tréville added wryly.

Porthos, who was riding beside the cart so that he could watch over his brothers, snorted in amusement. "Can't recall the last time I saw him layin' anywhere so rested and peaceful."

"Perhaps I ought to have got details of the mix from Brother Godwin before we left. I could use it on Athos more frequently," Aramis offered. His expression was serious but both Tréville and Porthos could detect the mischief in his voice.

"I doubt that he would let you," the Captain said. "He was too aware of its bad taste and he would not fall for such deception again."

"With regard to that deception, Captain," Aramis began, "you had me fooled back at the Abbey. I suspected that you would do something and possibly try to stop us from travelling but to give us different medicine? Well, you surprised me there, especially when whatever it was knocked out Athos so quickly."

Tréville accepted the faint praise with a raised eyebrow. "Needs must."

"But I wonder how Athos will feel about it when he awakes."

"Thankful that I spared him the discomfort of a long journey back to Paris and that I did not leave him behind at the Abbey. That's how he will feel," and Tréville spurred his horse on, back towards the head of the column. They missed his sly smile; he was not about to admit to them or anyone that he was mightily relieved to have all his men with him again.

They did stop an hour later to water and rest the horses, allowing them to graze whilst the men partook of the provisions that the Abbot insisted they take with them when they departed. Leaning on the side of the cart, he checked on its occupants again and found Athos awake and sipping at some water, a helping of bread and cheese abandoned on the blanket beside him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Drugged. Half asleep still," Athos admitted. The swelling on his face had all but gone and now both green eyes filled with suspicion when he saw the small bottles that the Captain was holding.

"I have brought you more medication."

"I don't need it," Athos insisted but there was no strength in his defiance.

"It is not negotiable," Tréville stated as he studied the regiment's best swordsman.

He wondered if the aftereffects of the combined painkiller and sedative were making Athos nauseous for the untouched food was obvious, as was the grey, sweaty hue to the young man's skin.

Tréville was not without sympathy but he was not about to rescind his decision. "We have about another hour on the road if all goes well and I do not want to stop again if it can be avoided. Either you take it of your own volition, or I get Porthos to sit on you whilst I pour it down your throat. Aramis and the prisoner will also swallow their medicine." He glared at the marksman, daring him to refuse but Aramis could no longer ignore the throbbing pain in his shoulder and, without the prospect of any relief, would have been dreading the remainder of the journey.

Exchanging resigned glances, Athos and Aramis reached out simultaneously and took what was offered.

II

The final stage of the trip back to Paris passed without incident and Tréville rode at the head of the column deep in thought about events. The more he mulled over what he knew, the more gaps that appeared in that knowledge and his mind reeled with unanswered questions. He could not shake the notion that Richelieu was involved, a prospect that filled him with horror for how could he prove it? And how would he proceed if and when that proof was discovered, for he knew that he would have a hard time convincing the King that his First Minister was a traitor.

Or was he? As much as he disliked the Cardinal and his more extreme methods, he had to admit a grudging respect for the man who always maintained that his motives were for the good of France. The end justified the means, he claimed.

So what would be the benefit for France if the Treaty with Spain collapsed? Louis' brother-in-law was the Spanish King so he would want to avoid a conflict that would be costly in French lives and coin, as well as bringing unhappiness to his wife.

As hard as he tried, Tréville could not supply the answers. "Which is why I am a soldier and not a politician," he muttered to himself.

There was still a sense of relief when he crested the last hill and was in a position to look down upon the city of Paris. When he had left it, he feared that he would be returning with the bodies of his best men, but that calamity had been averted – just – and he gave an involuntary shudder as he recollected hearing the barrage of gunfire directed at the place where the three Musketeers had been hiding. He would never forget Porthos' manic laugh as he stood like a colossus on the rocky slope, determined to protect his brothers at all costs.

A horse drawing level with him broke his reverie.

"Nearly home," Claude said.

"Nearly home," Tréville repeated. He paused. "Lead the men back to the garrison for me. Get the prisoners settled for now; I'll see about having them transferred to the Chatelet tomorrow."

"You not coming back to the garrison?" Claude frowned. The mission had been fraught on so many levels and it had taken its toll on the regiment's commander for he seemed exhausted.

"I'm going straight to the Palace to report to the King and hand over the document. I don't want it in my keeping for one minute longer than necessary," declared Tréville.

Claude nodded in understanding. "If you don't mind me sayin', try not to take too much time about it. I'll make sure Serge keeps back hot food for you; that's after I've got our boys into the infirmary; locked in there if need be."

Tréville rewarded him with a tired smile. "Just put Porthos on guard at the door; they wouldn't dare try to move then!"

III

When he arrived at the Louvre Palace, Tréville found Louis and Richelieu together in the library, so deep in conversation that they were seemingly oblivious to his presence. He stood there for some time, long enough that he began to wonder if they were deliberately ignoring him. Giving them the benefit of the doubt , he put a hand to his mouth and diplomatically coughed to draw their attention. Eventually, the King turned and there was no concealing his displeasure. Tréville recognised it with a sinking heart even as he bowed low. What had upset the monarch now?

"How nice of you to grace us with your presence, Captain."

Treville was confused. "Sire?"

"Since when do you take it upon yourself to disappear? I am facing a horrendous crisis with my brother-in-law and need both you and the Cardinal by my side to assist and advise me. Yet what do I find? The reassuring company of dear Richelieu here and no sign of the Captain of the King's regiment, _my_ regiment.

"I sent repeatedly for you, only to be informed that you had elected to go for a little ride with some of your men rather than being here in person to answer my question. Five times I sent for you and you still had not returned. What would possibly have been so important that it took precedence over your King?"

"As you can see, Tréville, His Majesty has been sorely tested by your absence. One would even go so far as to say that it was bordering on neglect."

"It has more than bordered on neglect, my dear Armand," the King spluttered. "It _is_ neglect. The Captain here has failed in his duty to me."

Tréville frowned, his own anger mounting at the unjustified reprimand and the smug expression on the First Minister's face. The odious man was revelling in every moment of Tréville's humiliation.

"Not only that," Louis continued, "but you left here in the immediate wake of an horrific murder in Notre Dame. I then learn that you have ordered your men to investigate. I do not see any plausible reason for their involvement. If I find that the actions of my Musketeers are in any way responsible for this heinous act, it will not go well for you, Tréville."

"As it is, the entire building has to be re-consecrated in a very time-consuming ceremony to cleanse it of the atrocity carried out in the house of God," the Cardinal added. "To make matters worse, the victim was one who had been called to dedicate his life to the service of Our Lord for he wore the trappings of a novice. What is it coming to that an innocent cannot enter a place of worship to offer prayer and supplication to God without being callously slain? You would do well to concentrate upon ridding the streets of the scum who believe it acceptable to perpetrate such crimes."

Tréville was becoming desperate to wipe away Richelieu's supercilious smirk but focused his attention on the King, anything to avoid venting the caustic comment he wanted to make, and which would be guaranteed to increase his troubles. Of course the Musketeer regiment was capable of protecting the Royal couple at all times, standing guard at the palace, running risks whilst completing highly important missions – preferably without getting killed in the process – acting as glorified delivery boys and messengers and fulfilling a host of other mundane errands that the King dreamed up, and this was before they started cleansing the streets of Paris of those intent upon causing harm to the city's inhabitants! He really wanted to ask what the role was of the Cardinal's Red Guard.

"My apologies, Sire, but I do not understand. Before I departed – and I was about Your Majesty's business, I hasten to add – I wrote an explanatory letter and had it delivered by one of my men."

"What business, pray?" Louis demanded. "Your business and prime concern is to find the solution to this mess with the Spanish Ambassador. I have had to send word to Philip that his representative has been butchered on French soil and the Treaty missing that he had agreed to and signed. I am going to look ridiculous as a result of this, Treville, but instead of helping, you go for a jaunt through the countryside."

Tréville took a deep breath; it would not do to raise his voice to the King.

"I was searching for the missing Musketeers whom we sent to collect the Treaty, Sire."

Did he imagine it or did Richelieu suddenly stiffen? He shifted his position slightly so that, without moving his head, he could seemingly give his full attention to the King whilst still seeing Richelieu's response to the news he was about to impart.

The Captain continued his account. "That murdered young novice was Brother Lawrence from the Abbey at Saint Denis. He came to see me to tell me that Athos, Porthos and Aramis were on the run, severely injured in an attack by a large band of unknown assailants who then seized the Abbey itself. The Brother hid my men in some nearby caves and came for help."

The King's eye widened in surprise. He took two or three steps and sank onto the nearest chair. Tréville, frustrated, adjusted his position but it was harder to keep the Cardinal in his peripheral vision, although the man stood still, watching and listening intently.

"Go on," the King insisted.

"I gave orders and immediately sat and wrote a message to Your Majesty, informing you of the latest developments. I sent Davide to the Palace with it before I received news that the novice had been killed. Admittedly, I left trusted men to begin an investigation, but I considered the priority was to save the Treaty and my men."

Tréville felt vindicated when he saw the King nod sagely. "I was hasty in my accusation, Captain. I now see that you were acting just as I would expect of you." It was the kind of comment that was the closest Louis ever came to apologising.

Richelieu had the decency to look uncomfortable, but it was fleeting as the inscrutable mask immediately returned.

"I assure you, Tréville, that I never received any such communication," Louis declared. "Did you, Richelieu?"

"I never saw the Musketeer concerned, Sire," Richelieu said carefully.

He brazenly held the King's gaze but whilst Louis was satisfied, the evasive answer had not gone unnoticed by Tréville.

"I will summon Davide, Your Majety, so that we might ascertain the train of events and discover what has happened to the missing message," Tréville declared.

He wanted to hear from Davide directly and with the King as a witness. The Musketeer had to have passed the missive to someone and he wanted to know the identity of the person concerned. He was not going to allow any further slights against him or his men; no-one – least of all Richelieu - would be able to level a charge again of neglected duty.

The King threw up his hands. "Disappearing messages now," he complained bitterly. "First the Treaty and Musketeers and now the message. Whatever will be next? I cannot cope with anything else disappearing. Someone is conspiring against me and I want to know who it is."

Tréville studied Richelieu but his words, with their veiled challenge to the churchman, were addressed to Louis. "Oh I intend to find out, Your Majesty, and I will leave no stone unturned in my search. I want to know how valuable information is being leaked so that we are thwarted in every move and I definitely want to know who is behind the attack on my men."

"Did you find them? Are they alive?" Louis suddenly reminded why Tréville had ridden out to the rescue.

The Captain allowed a slight smile to play at the corners of his mouth.

"Thank you for asking after them, Sire. I am delighted to inform you that we have brought them back to the garrison's infirmary and all will recover fully to serve Your Majesty soon. However, I have further good news for you." He paused for here was a moment to savour and he was eager to see the impact of his revelation on Richelieu.

"I have something for you, Sire," he announced, hand slipping inside his doublet to retrieve the leather case.

He stepped forward, dipped his head deferentially, and held out the precious document. "Here, safe and sound, is the Treaty."


	18. Chapter 18

_**To those of you in the UK, happy Bank Holiday Monday. To everyone else, happy Monday! Thank you so much for the responses to the last chapter.**_

 _ **As always, it is lovely to hear from you and read your encouragement. Any errors here are all mine!**_

 _ **A friend from work - who also writes - has been staying with me since Friday night. It's a hive of industry here in my house at present. We've been at a literary festival for much of the past couple of days, listening to authors and being inspired, and then we have spent the rest of the time writing. Great fun!**_

 _ **So what's going on now?**_

CHAPTER 18

I

Richelieu was an unhappy man, very unhappy, made more so by the fact that he had sent a messenger for Milady de Winter and, so far, had been unsuccessful in locating her.

"You would do well to hide, Milady," he hissed savagely into the empty room. "You have been a dismal failure in this assignment and now I have to try to find a way out of this mess."

He sat back in his chair and surveyed the cavernous office. He had always believed that its sparseness was daunting to many of those who passed through its portals but now realised that it had had little impact upon the dark-haired beauty who frequently slipped in unannounced through the secret door to make her reports or receive her next assignment. Eyes narrowing in undisguised fury at the potentially catastrophic outcome to his current plans, Richelieu tried to review the situation and salvage what he could.

Both he and the King had listened to Tréville's detailed account of the rescue mission and the search for the document whilst Musketeer Athos had lain unconscious. Louis had gasped in horror at the invasion of the monastery by the attackers, aghast that any should dare to defile a religious house in such a manner. It was, as he noted, the second sacrilege against God. The King had even been sympathetic to what had happened to Athos following his capture although he had made it seem a mere imposition; the audacity of such treatment meted out upon one of _his_ soldiers could only be interpreted as an attack upon his royal person.

It was nt long, however, before he was clapping his hands repeatedly like an excited child as he heard of the soldiers' escape and Porthos' solo defence of his brothers at the cave, outnumbered as he was. Even Tréville had received effusive compliments from the King as he recounted how he had managed to decipher Athos' cryptic message to locate the Treaty.

Damn Tréville! He always succeeded in turning bad to good and came out of a situation looking far better than he deserved. Such a state of affairs could not be allowed to continue!

The capture alive of some of the prisoners was of immediate concern. The only advantage that he could see was that it saved him a lot of money. Granted they had received some payment in advance but with many of the group dead and the others incarcerated, it meant that he did not have to part with the remainder of the payment. It also meant, though, that these men owed no loyalty to either him or Milady de Winter. Had she been circumspect in what she had divulged to them? Or had she made some error that would lead any investigation back to him via her, identifying him as the instigator of this treasonous plot?

Now, Richelieu could not fathom how far he trusted Milady. As with everything he did, he had made investigations into her background before taking her into his employment nearly three years before. There were gaps in that information – such as the two or more years prior to her coming to him - but he had discovered enough to confirm her reputation and skills honed in the Paris underworld. In their initial interviews, she had told him what she wanted him to know and he did not deem it necessary to correct her in certain lies or make her aware of the points on which he knew she was holding back. That artifice stayed close to his heart for he knew there would be a time when he could use such information against her; there was always such a time. So he thought he knew her and her motivation sufficiently to use her to his own purposes, but now he thought that he might be wrong.

When he had described to her and named the three Musketeers he was sending to meet with the Spanish Ambassador, she had feigned disinterest, merely assimilating the details of the assigned task, but he had seen and heard the sharp intake of breath, the sudden flash in her eyes and the blanching of her cheeks at the mention of their names.

She had swiftly regained her composure but, having witnessed it, he could not help but wonder which of the three men had initiated such a response. He discounted Porthos, believing him to be too uncouth for the likes of her. There was the remote possibility that she might be attracted by his 'roughness' but Richelieu found it difficult to imagine, perhaps because he would never stoop to solicit female companions of that ilke. There was Aramis, of course; his reputation as a Lothario preceded him and perhaps she had, like many others before her, succumbed to his wiles. And then there was Athos; taciturn Athos with the bearing and speech patterns of a nobleman and who, despite his penchant for a good wine, had mysteriously appeared from nowhere and inveigled his way into obtaining a commission, partly through his astonishing ability with a sword.

Richelieu did not acknowledge 'hunches' and openly despised guesswork but he was a man of instinct and that instinct was active right now. He sat upright, his eyes staring straight ahead as he recalled the conversation he had had with Milady several days earlier within the confines of this very room. Having given her the instructions that he wanted three musketeers intercepted and killed for the document they were carrying, he had then proceeded to describe and name them.

He closed his eyes, visualising the meeting and trying to remember in which order he had discussed the men. Aramis! He had begun with Aramis, then talked about Porthos because the pair were brothers of longstanding so that meant he had left Athos until last …

It was Athos, it had to be. He slammed his hand down flat on the table, the sound echoing around the large, austere chamber. There must be some kind of link from the past between Athos and Milady de Winter for she had definitely reacted – albeit momentarily - to the mention of his name.

He thought on, searching the minutiae that he stored in his brain, dragging to the forefront any relevant material: when the aloof Musketeer had first come to his notice (no doubt it was related to the numerous fights he and the other two got into with members of the Red Guard) and when the man had then received his commission. Richelieu had been present when Athos knelt before his King in the the throne room, had seen the undisguised pride on Tréville's face as he had stepped forward to do the final honour, slipping the stiff leather pauldron up the soldier's arm and buckling it to the shoulder.

As the Captain had drawn Athos to his feet and Aramis and Porthos stepped forward to offer their congratulations with enthusiastic handshakes, Richelieu had seen the joyous glance shared between the four and knew, in that moment, that the four would become a force to be reckoned with. Over time, he had been proved correct on many an occasion. They were Tréville's best men - hadn't the Captain said so more than once? – and the trio were a definite thorn in his side so when the details of the Treaty's movements had been finalised, Richelieu had seen the opportunity to solve various problems simultaneously.

Picking up his quill pen, he dipped it into the ink and started to scratch across the paper in a spidery hand. He needed to make some serious inquiries into the backgrounds of the enigmatic Musketeer and the dark-haired beauty whom he employed as a spy and assassin. He was convinced that their paths had crossed at some point and he resolved to discover what it was. Two loners who had arrived in Paris within months of each other, similar in age, both with a mysterious past that they sought to conceal, he with a demeanour that smacked of nobility and she with the ability to pass as one. Richelieu did not believe in coincidences either.

This all raised another uncomfortable question. Had she, then, deliberately foiled the plot to kill the Musketeers and seize the Treaty? Had she dared to lie to him, Richelieu, all this time? It was, he thought, unlikely as she had been fully compliant with arrangements as he divulged them, even down to the prospect of murdering three of His Majesty's Musketeers before she knew their identities. Why had she been so surprised – nay, shocked even? Could she be trusted? He hoped so, for she had been very useful so far, but he would be wary until he knew for certain. If she proved trustworthy, then so be it. If not?

Then he had others in his employment who were equally capable of eradicating a problem.

II

Tréville and Musketeer Davide were already waiting in the library when Richelieu entered with the King. Formalities over, the monarch took a seat and gestured for David to approach.

"You are the Musketeer tasked with bringing a message to the palace from your Captain on the day he departed to search for your three missing colleagues," Louis began.

"I am, Your Majesty."

"And did you fulfil that command?"

A mixture of emotions flitted across Davide's face: confusion, surprise and then anger that his duty and honour should be brought into question. He glanced in the Captain's direction but Tréville simply nodded his encouragement to continue.

"Of course I did, Sire. I always obey the Captain," Davide declared.

"Even if you thought an order was superfluous, immoral or against your better judgement?" Richelieu interrupted. Three sets of eyes turned on him and he shrugged. "I am just curious."

Tréville opened his mouth to object but Davide was quite capable of speaking for himself. "An army that chooses which orders to obey and which to refuse does not stand as an army; it would not survive and would swiftly descend into anarchy. Besides, Your Eminence, there is nothing superfluous, immoral or reckless in delivering a message from the Captain of the King's Guard to the King himself."

Tréville sought to smother a smile and dared not catch anyone's eye as the Cardinal harrumphed his displeasure at the answer and the King chuckled in amusement.

"Well said, Musketeer," Louis said. "so you followed your orders and brought the Captain's message to the Palace but then what did you do? You see, that message somehow disappeared and I was never in receipt of it."

Alarmed, Davide looked at Tréville. "I swear I delivered it, Captain."

"I have no doubt that you did, Davide," the Captain said, "but somehow, after that, my letter to the King went astray and we are endeavouring to trace its whereabouts. To whom did you give it?"

Whilst the Captain had immediate access to the King and a lieutenant on his own slightly less so, it was not customary for many of the rank and file Musketeers to be easily admitted into the King's presence unless they were on guard duty, so there was nothing unusual in Davide being expected to part with the message on his arrival at the Louvre.

Out of respect for the monarch, Davide directed his answer to Louis. "I gave it to one of your household, Sire; he was wearing your livery."

"Not the King's chief steward then?" Richelieu demanded.

"No, Sir."

"You are sure?" the Cardinal was persistent.

"Quite sure, Your Eminence. I know the Steward Goffinet by sight. It was definitely not him, but the man I spoke to said he would pass it to him directly."

"And what of this servant to whom you spoke, did you know him?" Tréville pressed. Whilst the Musketeers were expected to be able to recognise all senior members of the royal houselhold, including the more important servants, there was no way that they would know everyone, especially those whose work confined them to below stairs. But if the servant were unknown, it was possible he was an intruder intercepting such communicatons from the garrison and thereby explaining the leak which Tréville was convinced emanated from the palace. It could exonerate the Cardinal after all.

The Captain glanced in Richelieu's direction and suddenly thought how the man reminded him of a great black crow, just watching and waiting with his beak-like features. Perhaps it would not clear him of suspicion …

"I do, Captain. I have seen him in the corridors many times but I am afraid I do not know his name."

"Do not worry, Davide," Tréville reassured him. "You have at least been able to confirm that the man was in the employment of the household. That alone has made things easier." He turned to the King. "I suggest, Sire, that we summon your Chief Steward to see if he knows anything of the message."

Another delay ensued as Goffinet was summoned and he could be heard arriving long before he could be seen. The loud, effeminate voice demanded that the doors be opened to admit him to the King, who had sent for him on a matter of urgency. Tréville felt a surge of annoyance as no such thing had been mentioned when the call was sent, but then he was easily annoyed by everything about Goffinet.

What Goffinet lacked in height, he made up for in girth, the buttons on his outrageously patterned doublet visibly straining, his double chins wobbling at his efforts and his little steps ridiculous as he crossed the library floor almost at a run. Exaggerated curls of his bright red wig bounced around his cheeks and shoulders. The hair piece was obviously unaccustomed to such protracted activity on the part of its wearer as the jerky movement sought to displace it, revealing the shiny, pink pate beneath. A fat-fingered hand reached up to slide it back into position but once this had been repeated three times, Goffinet simply chose to slap his hand on his head to secure it, which made his obsequious bow more ungainly and comic.

Tréville, temporarily distracted, was fascinated for the wig, poorly fitting as it was, was a sight to behold and obviously newly acquired for when he happened to see the Steward not two weeks beforehand, he had been sporting something of a nondescript brown and not so elaborate.

The Captain was momentarily relieved that the _Inseparables_ were not present to see it because he feared that Porthos would not be able to contain himself and would laugh, Aramis would smirk and have something witty to say regarding fashion whilst Athos …. Athos would remain utterly unmoved by the sight with the exception, perhaps, of a disgusted roll of the eyes. He would prefer to store up his caustic comments for the return ride to the garrison, delivering them so drily that his brothers would be convulsed with uncontrolled merriment and even he, Tréville, would be hard pressed to maintain the decorum expected of the Captain of the King's Guard.

As it was, he had to nudge Davide in the ribs and glare at him so that the mesmerised Musketeer would shut his mouth and stop gawping at the unfortunate man. The only consolation was that Richelieu had suddenly developed a very irritating cough and had turned his back on the newcomer, whilst the King merely stared in blatant amazement.

"Goffinet, my good fellow, you look ….." Here the King paused, struggling to find a suitable word. "Different."

At this, the Cardinal was seized by another bout of coughing whilst Davide looked at Tréville desperately for appropriate guidance. It was left to the Captain to save the day, speaking before the puffed-up little ginger bantom cock had the chance to say his piece.

"The King has sent for you because we wanted to know if you had taken possession of a letter I sent from the garrison within the past few days."

Goffinet looked from one to the other of those present and shook his head. "I know your seal and hand, Captain Tréville, and I assure you that any such missive would immediately be delivered to His Majesty. I am sorry, but I have seen nothing since before your last visit here."

"You are sure, Goffinet?" the King frowned.

"Absolutely, Sire."

"You didn't receive it and put it aside because some other business demanded your attention so that you then forgot it?" Richelieu challenged, having recovered from his coughing fit. His dislike of the little steward emanated from him in waves.

"Certainly not, Cardinal!" he objected, his umbrage causing his voice to rise nearly an octave.

"Then the matter rests with the servant who took the message from Davide. He must be brought to us at once," Tréville ordered. "My man does not have a name for the individual but he can give you a description of the person concerned. Davide?" and he indicated to the Musketeer to begin.

"The man was young, early twenties, no more. He was a little shorter than me but taller than you," and he flushed as he looked at Goffinet who had clearly taken offence again when none was meant.

Tréville felt sorry for the Musketeer but what he spoke was the truth. Anyway, it was hard for anyone _not_ to be taller than the steward.

"He was very fair of skin, pleasantly spoken but with traces of a Normandy accent and he had thin, lank, blond hair."

As Davide finished his description, the colour drained from Goffinet's face in alarm.

"What is it? What's the matter?" Tréville demanded, noticing the abrupt change that had come over the Steward.

"That is what I have been looking into," Goffinet stammered. "This is the second day that one of the servants has failed to appear for work without any explanation. We have sent to his lodgings but he seems to have disappeared without a trace. The man is Alain Nadeau. He is a loyal servant and has been here since a boy of twelve with seldom a day missed through ill health, which is why we found it strange when he did not come yesterday. He has been charged of late with being on duty at the entrance commonly used by your men, Captain, and I had to find someone at short notice to take his place."

Goffinet turned to Davide, the mood in the library taking on a sombre note. "And he fits the description of the man to whom you gave the message."


	19. Chapter 19

_**And here's the next chapter. Thank you to all the readers of the last one and those who reviewed.**_

 _ **Richelieu is not a happy man and not without reason. Treville is not happy either and he has his reasons too. Please excuse any errors. They are all mine.**_

CHAPTER 19

I

Richelieu was simmering with rage as he strode back to his office, black robe billowing out behind him. Slamming the door, he paced the room in large circles, his mind racing as he contemplated the possibility of the latest failure in his scheme. Damn Tréville and his men and damn Milady de Winter if here was yet another thing she had not completed properly.

And where was she still? He could only surmise that she was deliberately avoiding him for some reason. It was imperative that he have a more thorough investigation into her background before the day was out for, he was seriously beginning to doubt her trustworthiness and reliability.

Another thought struck him, and he hastened round his desk to unlock and pull open the top drawer. Riffling through the more confidential papers he stored there, he pulled out a small, folded document.

One of his servants had lit the fire in the grate, the flames crackling and some warmth warding off the worst of the chill in the vast room. Unfolding the paper, he reread the contents one final time.

Addressed to the King and scribbled in Tréville's untidy hand, it detailed the arrival at the garrison of a young novice from the Abbey, alerting the Captain of the attack upon his men whom he now knew were carrying the real Treaty. They were all injured, in hiding and desperately in need of assistance. The matter was of such import given the significance of the Treaty and the level of his concern for his best men that he was leading the search and rescue of them himself. He anticipated being absent from the city for two or three days and would report to Louis immediately on his return – all of which he had subsequently done.

Richelieu scanned the lines again but there was nothing possibly hidden in the communication. He harrumphed his contempt, convinced that Tréville lacked the sophistication necessary to be anything other than a mere soldier. Everything was so literal with the man and so …. Richelieu grimaced as he searched for the correct words … so honourable! It was a trait the officer strove to instil in all his men, the code by which they all abided. That and 'brotherhood'. It almost sickened him. Especially when the worst of them were the insufferable trio he had sent to collect the Treaty. This was just another instance where they had annoyingly escaped to thwart his plans. Was there no end to the meddling of the Musketeers?

He had kept Tréville's missive to the King because he made it a point of keeping anything that he obtained – by legitimate means or foul – that appertained to the soldier, just in case the occasion ever arose in the future whereby he could twist and use something against the Captain. The conviction that Tréville was doing exactly the same thing about him and compiling information had long been in his mind.

Perhaps it was wrong of him to ever underestimate the officer's strategic mind. It had not escaped his notice that Tréville had surreptitiously been watching him of late so the man must have some suspicions, even though he could not possibly have any evidence – yet! Richelieu would do well to be careful.

Thinking about some of the brainless rabble who constituted his Red Guard, he doubted that all the Musketeers could be hailed to be completely without reproach. They must have their weaknesses – of course they did. Sons of nobility they might be - although it did not explain how that Porthos came to join their ranks - but they were the younger sons and they got into debt and other troubles.

He only had to look at Tréville's favourites. What were they called? The _Inseparables_? Ridiculous name! Of course they could be separated; every man had his weaknesses – and his price. The trio certainly had those in abundance from the reports he had received: Porthos with his cards, Aramis with his women, and Athos with his drink. Younger sons of nobility to bring shame upon the family name? He could not, somehow, see that applying to the first two but that Athos? Once again, Richelieu was convinced that there was more to be uncovered where the young man was concerned.

Discounting the three – they were not Tréville's best men without reason - he would start investigating. There had to be one Musketeer at least who was in trouble or disgruntled with his lot and who, for the right price, could be turned to become the Cardinal's man. It would be a coup to have a spy within the Musketeer ranks but it would take time and was for the future, not now.

In the meantime, there were more serious issues demanding his attention and he threw the Captain's letter to the King onto the fire. With grim satisfaction, he watched the flames take their destructive hold, the edges of the paper first glowing, then curling and turning black.

Within a couple of minutes, the letter had ceased to exist, and he could only hope that the same had happened to the missing servant.

II

Tréville sat in his office and resisted the urge to bury his aching head in his hands; he did not seem to have paused for breath since returning from the Abbey. He knew that Davide and Claude, who stood before him, were waiting for him to state what they were to do next.

"Right," he began, with more certainty than he felt, "first things first. How are the boys?" He directed the question to Claude.

"Last time I looked in on 'em, Athos was still sleepin' off what you gave him, and Aramis was comfortably restin' with Porthos watchin' 'is every move. Serge took 'em some food. So," he grinned, "when all's said an' done, they were behavin' themselves."

"Thank goodness for that. I can do without having to deal with them at present."

Claude frowned. "Bad as all that at the palace?"

Tréville nodded and explained what had transpired. When he had sent a hasty message back to the garrison to summon Davide, he had not bothered to add anything else. He finished with the King's tirade about people and things going missing all the time.

"And I can't say I blame him," the Captain continued. "I am heartily frustrated myself with the goings on. At my last reckoning, we have been searching for a Spanish Ambassador, a Treaty, one or two groups of attackers, a novice, three Musketeers, a mystery woman and now one of His Majesty's household. The whole thing is becoming preposterous."

"I quite agree," said Claude, his eyes twinkling as he sought to lighten the Captain's mood. "Anyone'd think there was someone out there who didn't want peace between Spain an' France."

Tréville tried to fix him with a withering stare, failed and had to settle for a wan smile.

"I'm sorry, Captain. Did I do anything wrong when I delivered your message?" Davide looked very worried as if the calamitous turn of events were solely his responsibility.

"No, Davide. You did absolutely nothing wrong. Quite the contrary. Thank goodness for your powers of observation and ability to give a detailed description of the man you saw." He stood and picked up his hat which he had dropped on a corner of his desk. "Come on, you two. Let's pay a visit to the morgue."

III

Situated in tunnels beneath a cemetery and the Paris streets, the morgue was a dark, cold and, in areas, a damp place. Bleak and depressing, it was the penultimate resting place of those who met a violent or premature end, or whose unnamed bodies were collected like detritus from shadowed corners of the city's alleyways or washed up on the banks of the Seine.

The man with the responsibility of examining the dead and preparing them for their final destination was Poupart. His subterranean existence meant that he resembled a walking version of those he tended and even Tréville found any dealings with the man unnerving. With his wispy hair, protuberant eyes and a skin so white from the lack of sunlight, Poupart was a strange creature of the near dark, viewing his underground world only by subdued candle or lamp light.

He met them at the door of his domain, a blood-spattered apron tied round his waist and a raised cleaver in his hand at the sudden interruption. With muted greetings and introductions quickly dispensed with, he concentrated on Tréville with a disconcertingly wide-eyed stare as the Captain explained the reason for their visit.

In brief, they wanted to see any bodies brought down there within the past few days whose deaths were the result of foul play.

Poupart gave a disconcerting laugh and waved his hands in the direction of the laden tables that stretched down the room.

"That applies to most of my guests," he said hoarsely, as if he were unaccustomed to using his voice amongst the deceased or else habitually spoke in nothing more than a whisper for fear of disturbing them. "Can you tell me anymore?"

Tréville nodded to Davide who repeated the description of Alain Nadeau.

Poupart nodded solemnly. "That fits four or five of 'em."

The Captain suppressed a sigh. Did he really have to state the obvious to this annoying little man. Immediately, he reprimanded himself. The man had an unsavoury job and could hardly be blamed for any lack of social graces because he spent so much of his time communing with the dead.

"Perhaps you could point them out to us," he suggested.

"I'll take you to them," Poupart announced, his tone indicating that he thought he was doing them a great favour. "I'm not having you wandering about wherever you want and upsetting my arrangements."

He led the three Musketeers between the rows of dead, gesturing to those he thought fitted the brief description and receiving a swift shake of the head when Davide saw that none of them was Nadeau.

"Why are only some of them covered?" the Musketeer asked. He had seen many dead in his years as a soldier, but it seemed disrespectful that some of them remained without even a sheet to shield them from prying eyes. It was not only Musketeers who came to view the dead; there were those willing to part with money for such macabre entertainment and he did not doubt that such remuneration was a welcome addition to Poupart's meagre earnings.

"There's been a rush of 'em wanting to make my acquaintance of late an' I'm nearly out of coverings and wrappings. My usual washer woman is refusing to take any from me on account of her thinking I've been usin' them for plague victims. There's another outbreak in the south east of the city. Well, I keep tellin' her that I don't have none of 'em here. They go straight into the special pits outside the city walls, but she'll have none of it. So, I make the best of a bad lot and save the covering for those who've been dead a while before they make it 'ere or they're not as pretty as they were when they were alive."

As he talked, Poupart led them to the bottom end of the long room and paused to uncover one of the corpses there.

"If this isn't who you're looking for, there're more next door but I'm thinkin' they've been here too long for you." He stood back to give Davide room to inspect the body.

"It's him," Davide confirmed after a moment.

The features and lank blond hair were unmistakable as was the cause of death.

"His throat's been cut," Claude verified.

"There's somethin' else," and Poupart pulled back the sheet even further to reveal more of the torso. There was a stab wound to the abdomen. "This isn't what killed him. It's the one to the throat that did that," he added unnecessarily.

Tréville looked thoughtful. "So Nadeau was facing his murderer."

"No defensive wounds," Claude observed.

"So how did his murderer get close enough to him to strike?" Davide wondered.

"Easily done," Tréville assured him. "He sees you, takes the message and moves to take it to the King. On the way, he is stopped by someone. Perhaps they speak but it is a surprise, none the less. The low stab wound is sudden; he does not anticipate it, but it immobilises him and he falls to the ground, unable to save himself from the killing wound."

"But he was young and healthy! How could he have been so surprised? As a servant, he would not have the skills of a soldier but surely, in a fight for his very life, he would have done something," Davide objected.

"He is a servant carrying a message for the King," Tréville reminded him, "and within the confines of the palace, he would never think that he is in danger carrying out an otherwise rudimentary task. How much easier it is if his assailant is a woman."

"A woman?" Davide's mouth dropped open in disbelief.

Tréville nodded. "She stabs him to weaken him, he drops helpless and she slits his throat. You're correct in that he was a fit young man, so she had to overpower him somehow, hence the wound that incapacitated him."

"But a woman couldn't move his body alone," Claude pointed out.

"And he wasn't hidden in the palace or Goffinet would have known about it," Davide added.

"So where was the body found?" Tréville asked.

Poupart shrugged. "On the south bank of the river in his undergarments."

"An attempt to delay identification," the Captain reasoned. "He would have been in the livery of the royal household otherwise."

"You so sure there's a woman involved?" Claude went on.

Tréville was reluctant to speak too openly about it in front of Poupart but acknowledged enough. "The novice was seen speaking to a woman before he died in Notre Dame. If he trusted her, was in a side chapel, kneeling and at prayer, it would be easy for her to overwhelm him without the need to wound him first."

Claude was thoughtful. "You're right, it has all the marks of bein' a woman."

An idea struck Tréville and he turned to Poupart. "Anybody found in suspicious circumstances or in the same area and brought in after Nadeau here?"

Poupart shook his head.

"If there is anyone, send word to me immediately, you understand?" Tréville instructed him as he nodded his farewell and headed back towards the exit that led to the surface.

"What's goin' through your mind?" Claude asked, frowning as he walked beside the Captain, Davide trailing in their wake

"If it _is_ the same person, she is adept at tidying up loose ends after herself and whoever helped her move Nadeau is probably in danger himself now. I cannot believe that we have a sudden glut of female assassins in Paris, so it has to be one and the same person. Think of it, Claude, she gave Loret the order to kill Athos, Aramis and Porthos. She murdered Brother Laurence and now she has killed one of the King's servants and he just happened to be the one who accepted my message to the King."

"You're makin' a really big jump in ideas 'ere. You could be wrong."

"And if I am, then I'll be the first to apologise and we'll have to go right back to the beginning and start again. But I don't think I am wrong; I really don't like this, Claude. She has access to the palace, knows her way around and is watching and waiting to seize upon advantages. She saw a Musketeer arriving with a message, made some kind of assumption and acted upon it. How the hell has she got past our security? I have to look at it and tighten it up; that is imperative.

"In the meantime, Loret stays with us in the cell at the garrison. I am not sending him to the Chatelet. He stays in sight, guarded and protected by Musketeers. In fact, I am going to double the guard as soon as we get back there."

"You think Loret will be next in her tidyin' up then?" Claude asked.

"I'm leaving nothing to chance. He had direct dealings with her. She maintained her anonymity and made sure he did not know where to find her, but he has failed spectacularly in his part of the scheme. My men are alive, and the Treaty has been delivered to the King. She might be wanting to get rid of him for being so inept as well as destroying any remote link to her and , through her, her employer."

"Perhaps she's one of the courtiers," Claude suggested.

Tréville shook his head, his face grim. "Somehow I don't think so."

They were walking past the last table bearing an uncovered body when Claude suddenly stopped and looked hard at the corpse.

"When was this one brought in?" he yelled back to Poupart who had remained at the far end of the room, busying himself with something.

"What is it?" Tréville demanded.

"Not sure yet; may be nothin."

Claude waited for Poupart to re-join them, look at the dead man and refer to his limited records to check the date.

"Later in the same day we rode out to find the boys," Claude announced.

Tréville's brow furrowed. "So?"

"Caronne and Benin pulled a duty on the gate an' they called me over, said there was a man loiterin' outside the garrison an' that he'd been there all mornin', not doin' anythin'. They thought they'd seen him the day before too, but they couldn't be sure."

Tréville's face darkened. "And you only thought to mention this now?"

"I never made the link; never thought there was a link to make. I was about to go an' speak to him, maybe warn 'im off but that was when Brother Laurence arrived an' was askin' to see you. Next time I looked, the man had gone. Never saw 'im again." He glanced down at the body. "Until now."

"Are you sure this is him?" Tréville asked.

"Same as I'm sure you're the Captain," Claude answered.

"How did this man die?" Tréville fixed Poupart with an icy stare.

"He was poisoned," Poupart announced.

"Easy enough for a woman to administer," Claude said quietly.

A chill gripped Tréville. Someone had been watching the activities of the garrison – his garrison - and, when the young novice arrived, the watcher had betrayed him to the woman who then murdered him without hesitation in the sanctity of the cathedral.

And now the watcher himself was dead – murdered.

Who was this woman and when was her 'tidying up' of loose ends going to stop?


	20. Chapter 20

**_Dear all, many thanks for the comments and response to the last chapter. This one, I confess, is very much a 'filler' chapter as Treville was the only one who knew all that was_**

 ** _going. I don't know about you but I needed a reminder too! Apologies in advance for any errors - they're all mine!_**

CHAPTER 20

Wearily, Tréville passed the reins of his mount to a stable boy and waited as Claude and Davide also dismounted. Patting his horse absent-mindedly as it was led away, he did a full circle, scrutinising the garrison yard and frowning.

"Claude, double up the guard at the entrance gate and put men behind the main buildings; I don't want anyone scaling a wall and coming across the grounds to gain access from the rear.

"Also, increase the guards on the prisoners, especially Loret, and let me have a list of all additional men as soon as possible as I'll be re-doing the duty roster later; I can't give men a double duty."

Claude nodded. "You still have a prisoner in the infirmary with the boys. Do you want one or two men posted there as well?"

Tréville considered the suggestion. "I'm on my way there now and I'll decide if it's needed. I can't imagine our three will want to be in there any longer than necessary and it's not very fair to give them a protection detail from their sickbeds, even if I thought it was a ploy to keep them there! It could be that our prisoner will be well enough to join his confederates tomorrow but be prepared to put a man there in the interim.

"Those on the main gate need to be extra-vigilant, just in case we have someone new lurking there, although I think we're a little late with our precautions and the damage has already been done but …" Tréville's voice trailed off as he recalled the fate of the young novice.

"But you still don't like the idea of this mystery woman knowin' our business?" Claude offered.

Tréville doffed his hat, slapped it against his thigh to remove the dust from his journey and ran a hand through sweat-dampened hair.

"You're absolutely right there. Oh and Davide …?"

"Yes, Sir," Davide snapped to attention.

"You have done well this afternoon. Go and get some food and ask Serge to send something across to me, will you?" Tréville ordered.

"Yes, Sir," and Davide was gone.

"He's a good man," Claude added. "Observant, quiet, reliable."

"He is indeed," Tréville agreed and smiled at the older man. "Like someone else I know." He looked pointedly at the other man.

"That's rubbish!" Claude exclaimed, dismissing the compliment with a wave of his hand.

"It's not and you know it. Without your attention, I wouldn't have known a second corpse in the morgue was involved in this whole sorry mess too."

Claude, never one for accepting praise willingly, shook his head and wandered off, muttering such things as, "Oh get away with you!" and "I'll sort the guard detail."

Tréville watched him go and allowed himself another smile of pride; he was a lucky man to have so many loyal and good men serving under him.

It never crossed his mind that those same men served hm with such faithfulness and fierce obedience because of the man he was and the example he set in his leadership.

Determined to check on the _Inseparables_ , Tréville pushed open the door of the infirmary and was pleased with the sight that met him. Porthos had requisitioned a chair beside the bed where Aramis, still clad in breeches and shirt, was sitting atop the blanket and watching his friend deal a hand of cards.

Athos was in his bed, awake and propped up against the pillows. As soon as he saw the Captain, however, his green eyes, still heavy with the remnants of the sleep-inducing potion he had taken, fixed upon the officer's approach. Tréville picked up a chair as he was passing it and set it beside the injured soldier. A cursory glance in the direction of the prisoner showed the man to be dozing.

"It's good to see you properly awake," said Tréville, keeping his voice light even as he eased his tired bones down onto the seat.

A slow blink was sufficient acknowledgement.

"How are you feeling?" he continued.

"Sore," Athos admitted before adding his usual reassurance, "but I'll live."

"And so I should think after all the trouble I went to in finding your sorry hide and getting you back here. And that goes for all of you." There was nothing serious in the mild rebuke and Tréville was rewarded with a twitch of the corners of the younger man's mouth. If that was all the smile Athos could muster, then it would have to suffice. He shifted his position slightly so that he could see his three men simultaneously.

"I am glad to see you looking better too, Aramis. That shoulder still giving you pain?" he asked.

"Not since I stopped being bounced about in the back of a cart," the marksman answered, his eyes bright but not with fever.

Tréville saw and understood his expression for what it was: unmitigated relief that they were all back at the garrison safe and sound, even if they were not unscathed, for he felt exactly the same.

"Allow me to remind you that it was _your_ stubbornness that had you bouncing around uncomfortably in the back of a cart," Tréville pointed out lightly. "I was more than prepared for you and Athos to remain behind and recover … in comfort!"

Aramis held out his hands in defeat. "

"Claude told us you had gone to the palace," Porthos began.

"And then you called for Davide to join you," Aramis sounded quizzical.

"And you have only just returned," Athos stated the obvious.

"That was a long meeting," Porthos added.

The three of them were watching him intently, urging him to relate what had been happening but before he could say anything, the door burst open noisily and Serge entered with Davide close behind. Both carried laden trays which they set down on a central table.

"You need to eat," the old cook said sternly to the Captain. "'E don't need tellin' twice even though he's already been fed," and here he nodded in Porthos' direction before turning his direction to Aramis. "That one's not exactly eaten much since gettin' back 'ere an' number three's at last got 'is eyes open." He fixed Athos with a glare that would shrivel the most violent of opponents. "So I'd appreciate it, Captain, if you made 'im stay awake long enough to eat what I've taken the effort to prepare rather than play with it an' push it round 'is plate."

The Captain snorted mildly in amusement and did not dare look directly at any of his men as he spoke.

"I'll see it done, Serge; you have nothing to worry about."

The old man harrumphed a reluctant satisfaction. "Right. I'll leave you to fend for yourselves. I've got other hungry men to feed to; can't be spendin' my time standin' here and makin' sure you all do as you're told."

Tréville frowned slightly at apparently being included in the rebuke … and then ashamedly recalled the times he had been so busy with paperwork that he had left untouched the fare Serge had delivered to his office. It was not really the cook's responsibility to ensure that he had something to eat, taking it to him if he never made it down to the mess room where the men gathered to take their meals.

Serge was almost out the door when he paused. "There's enough there for the prisoner too. Don't want 'im 'avin' any call to go complainin' that he wasn't bein' treated right!"

Davide offered an apologetic shrug and hurried after the cook, intent on getting his own food. The stunned silence that fell upon the infirmary was subsequently broken by a loud guffaw from Porthos as he moved to launch his own attack upon the trays. He ladled steaming mutton stew into bowls whilst Tréville hacked bread into chunks and then poured a watered ale into pewter cups.

At the other end of the room, as far removed from the door and the Musketeers as he could be, the prisoner stirred as Porthos, stony-faced, set the food and drink on a chair within his reach and his head dipped in tentative thanks, but Porthos was already returning to his friends.

The four Musketeers ate quietly, even Athos, who periodically lifted his eyes to discover that the Captain was still watching him carefully, so he deliberately maintained that eye contact as he raised another spoonful of stew to his mouth.

"That's not so hard now, is it?" the Captain quipped.

The only answer from Athos was a raised eyebrow and he reached for his cup of ale.

"You were going to tell us what happened at the place," he prompted, "but I may need you to repeat other information for me too. Aramis and Porthos have said a little but I confess to having large gaps in my understanding." He suddenly focused on the plate he was holding. "I know you have told me some things, but I am unsure whether some of the details in my head are as you said or if they are the result of the medicine and dreams."

Tréville saw his embarrassment for Athos was usually obsessive about details and information. He patted a blanketed leg reassuringly.

"I am not surprised you are a little muddle-headed. As well as all the draughts you have swallowed to sleep and kill the pain, you are trying to recover from a horrendous beating, a nasty wound and heavy blood loss and, as usual, you are in danger of pushing yourself too far and too soon. Why don't I start at the beginning? You can tell me the bits I can hurry over."

"Do you have the time?" Aramis asked, concerned that the Captain had other business that required his attention in the wake of his absence, even if it had only been for a few days.

"Oh, yes. I have more than enough time. The garrison is in Claude's safe hands for this evening and I can relax just as easily here as in my office." If truth be told, he was so thankful to have the three young men alert and in the same room as him, that he was looking for any excuse to stay there for as long as possible. There would be time enough in the night hours to draw up a new duty roster. Besides, he could do nothing until Claude furnished him with the list he had requested.

And so he began by recapping what they knew, what had sent the three of them northwards to meet Ambassador Méndez at Lille. Only now was he able to add and apologise for the fact that he had not known they were going to collect the real Treaty, something that had been decided between the Ambassador and Cardinal Richelieu.

"We were more than a little surprised when Méndez revealed that to us," Athos explained. "He declared that the Treaty would be safer with us for he believed himself to be in grave danger."

"Did he say who presented that danger?" Tréville asked.

"No," Aramis answered. "We tried to press him for more details, but he refused to say any more."

"His excuse was 'e didn't have the proof an' he wasn't wantin' to say anythin' until he was sure," Porthos added.

"That's absurd!" Tréville burst out. "He may have only had suspicions, but anything would have been better than leaving some bloody initials on a carriage floor."

Athos was confused. "Erm, I think that might be one of my gaps."

"Mine too," Aramis said pointedly.

The Captain looked at the three of them and sighed. He had had more opportunity to talk to Porthos whilst Aramis fought the fever and guessed that the two must have discussed the situation when Aramis began to recover but he realised that he had inadvertently omitted information through no fault of his own. This was the longest time all three had simultaneously been conscious and alert and after what they had been through, they deserved to be fully cognisant of the facts.

He told them about the three letters written by the Ambassador in his own blood and waited for their reaction.

"A clue definitely," Porthos asserted. "No man's goin' to spend his last minutes on this earth practising 'is letters."

"R-I-C. I know who that fits," Athos added quietly.

"That's what I've been thinking but I keep telling myself not to be blinded by the obvious. I wondered if it was in Spanish, Aramis."

The marksman shrugged. "It's possible but with only the three letters to go on, it could be anything or anyone."

A cough from the other end of the room reminded them of the presence of the prisoner.

"Should we be talkin' so openly in front of 'im?" Porthos jerked a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the other man.

"We'll keep our voices down," Tréville advised. "He won't be going anywhere in a hurry; I have decided to keep all the prisoners here under Musketeer protection.

Tréville resumed his account, telling them about finding the body of the Ambassador, the way it had been made to look as if the French were responsible, the reasons for his suspicions about Richelieu and the arrival of the young novice. Knowing that the young man had made a big impression upon his three men with the friendship, help and bravery in coming to Paris, he repeated what had happened to the novice, mentioning the eye-witness accounts that claimed he had been seen speaking with a woman shortly before his death.

"I will speak more of her later for she features highly in events," the Captain said, deferring the questions he knew they would have about the mystery woman.

He described his mood the moment the Cardinal admitted that the missing men were in possession of the real Treaty, his ride to the Abbey and the rescue of his injured soldiers.

"You buried us?" Aramis was incredulous at the revelation.

"Not buried!" Porthos objected as Athos raised a cynical eyebrow in his direction. "Hidden. It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"And it was a good idea," Tréville defended him. "The pair of you were very well hidden." He did not need to add what the outcome would have been had he not found them when he did.

Further details included his search for the Treaty given Athos' cryptic directions, the arrival of more Musketeers with Brother Laurence's corpse and his discussion with Loret, including the part about the prisoner's admiration and desire to meet with Athos.

"You don't 'ave to see him," Porthos spat out. His anger at what Loret had inflicted upon Athos still uppermost in his thoughts.

Athos hesitated. "I am … curious."

"You only need see him when you are ready and not before," Tréville reminded him. "Do you want to stop now and rest? You look tired and there is a lot of information to assimilate."

"No, I want to hear the rest," Athos insisted.

He was visibly wearying though and Tréville wondered how much he was remembering for he had let the Captain continue his account uninterrupted, even though he had heard parts of it in the past.

Now Tréville updated them on what had transpired at the palace and the morgue, the delay in ratifying the Treaty and the repeated involvement of the mystery woman.

"You're sure it's the same one?" Aramis asked.

"I do not want to think of a group of murderous women loose in the city," Tréville replied. "Whoever she is, she is skilful, cold and calculating. She is very dangerous and, I suspect, in the employment of the Cardinal. She will stop at nothing to maintain her anonymity and, in so doing, protect Richelieu's part in this and will silence any adversary if she sees fit. After all, she wanted you three dead."

"And that's why you want to keep Loret and his surviving men here," Aramis realised what lay behind the Captain's intentions.

Tréville nodded. "You three and Loret are the last of her 'loose ends' at present and I want to know where all of you are at any one time."

"You think she may try to get to us again?" Porthos was not altogether convinced that he and his brothers would be bested by a woman now that they were forewarned.

"I am taking nothing for granted," Tréville declared. "I fear that Loret is in more danger than you three right now. He is the one person who can identify her; with the exception of Richelieu, of course. It may be that we can draw her out because I believe that she is a very important link in all this."

Aramis leaned forward. "You said Loret described her to you. Was there anything that might help? There are a lot of women in Paris."

"Yeah," interrupted Porthos, grinning wildly, "an' Aramis knows most of 'em."

The Captain silenced him with a withering look before launching into the description Loret had given him.

Porthos whistled through his teeth. "She sounds like a real beauty; hard to accept that she's such a cold killer. An' you say she must have access to the palace?"

"Yes," but Tréville's voice sounded far away, distracted. He was watching Athos closely.

The younger Musketeer was no longer paying attention. His face, so often an impassive mask, was now a picture of anguish as he slumped against the pillows and stared into the distance.

"What is it, Athos? What's wrong? Are you in pain?" Tréville asked, concerned.

"It's been too much for him," and Aramis swung his legs over the side of his bed as if to stand.

Tréville stopped him with an outstretched hand. "Athos?"

"It's nothing." The words were nothing more than a whisper.

"I don't believe you." The Captain knew he sounded abrupt, but he also knew Athos and that he needed to be pushed. If it were at all possible, his pallor had worsened, and his forehead was beaded with sweat; he looked sick. "Tell me." He hoped Athos would not refuse a direct order.

"That description …."

His words were even more faint so that Tréville had to lean closer to hear what he was saying.

"It sounds … so like someone I … once knew."

"And who was that? Could it be her?" His voice gentler now, he sensed the other two behind him, straining to hear the exchange, but he also moved again to shield Athos from their view as he had seen the young man's green eyes fill with tears before turning his head away from the officer, ashamed at displaying such weakness.

He only knew a little of Athos' haunted past and he wondered what distressing memory had been resurrected now. He laid a hand on the troubled man's shoulder. "Athos?"

Swiping angrily at his eyes with the heel of a hand, Athos took a deep, shuddering breath.

"It's not her; it can't be. She's dead."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Dear all, I am still here. Thank you for your forbearance. What a manic few weeks! The result is that last Friday, as planned, I gave up the day job, retired, to focus on writing amongst other things. The days since have been celebrations, continuing work on the house and trying to establish a writing routine. That has gone quite well as I have several projects currently underway. I ideally want to finish 'Repercussions' in the next four weeks ahead of my departure for the USA (no pressure then lol). The hope is to get a non-fiction book out of that trip but I want to stay in touch on this site. With that in mind, 'Revenge' is currently 10 chapters long and developing nicely. It is set very early in Season 1 and directly follows 'Repercussions'.**_

 _ **My new self-imposed challenge is to write chapters as close to 1000 words as possible. Not doing very well - they range from 1086 to 1200+ at present.**_

 _ **Why this target? I have some shorter projects on the go with definite word limits and so I need the practice at making the writing more taut. I intend uploading every 3 days but that will depend upon internet access as I am travelling around.**_

 _ **So, what happen now between the French and the Spanish over the Treaty?**_

CHAPTER 21

Over the next few days, with the successful return of the Captain and his missing men, the occupants of the garrison fell into some semblance of a restored pattern.

Duties might be heavier with double the usual number of men at the main gate and other key areas, and prisoners to guard, but no Musketeer voiced any complaint or dissent; all knew that the Captain must have had his reasons, even if they were not privy to the specific details. Aramis had discharged himself from the infirmary but insisted that Athos remain there for a little while longer. It was a decision he was rapidly coming to regret for Athos had too many hours on his own to think as the prisoner had also been deemed fit enough to be removed to a holding cell.

On light duties himself with his arm in a sling, he took the opportunity of spending as much time with Athos as he could. Whilst his brother was making progress physically, he was not so emotionally, withdrawing into himself and refusing to discuss what was bothering him.

"How is he?" Tréville asked when he saw Aramis leaving the infirmary early one afternoon.

"The same. He won't talk to me."

"Then I consider it my turn to try," Tréville declared, staring at the closed door.

"I wish you well."

"Have you any idea what bothers him?" Tréville asked, hoping that Aramis might give him some clue.

"Who knows how his mind works?" There was regret in Aramis' tone. "Every time I think I begin to understand him a little more, I discover that I hardly know him at all."

They parted company and Tréville pushed open the Infirmary door. He did not deliberately set out to creep in, but his arrival had gone unnoticed by the room's sole occupant, so he took advantage of the situation to observe the young Musketeer.

Athos had donned his breeches and shirt, obviously refusing to be confined within his bed and so he sat on the coverlet, head down and brooding, his legs stretched out before him and arms folded. Facial bruising had faded to interesting shades of green whilst cuts and abrasions had scabbed well. The wound to his side was progressing but the Captain could appreciate Aramis' worry regarding Athos' state of mind. It was clear that he needed distraction and Tréville hoped that he could supply it. He coughed to clear his throat and announce his presence.

Immediately, Athos' head shot up, his eyes wary until he recognised his visitor. He straightened his back.

"Captain," he greeted.

"Athos," Tréville acknowledged. "How are you feeling today?"

"Fine, as I keep telling Aramis, but he persists in ignoring my wishes to be out of here."

"I am sure he thinks only of the best for you at this time."

"He had a hole in his shoulder. That is as bad, if not worse, than a slash to the side," Athos persisted, his clipped enunciation more pronounced than usual. Beneath the calm façade lay a bubbling cauldron of frustration and mounting anger.

Tréville took a deep breath for he knew from experience what Athos could be like when he was in this kind of mood.

"You are probably correct."

Athos raised an eyebrow, suspecting – quite rightly - that he was being humoured.

"But then he had not received a vicious and repeated beating to add to his injuries," Tréville added. "Just in case you had forgotten."

"How could I?" There was more than a trace of sarcasm now. "The aftermath remains visible to all, even if the aches and pains I still feel are known only to me."

"Hence the reason that Aramis wants you to stay here and rest." Careful reasoning was all that would help with Athos now.

"And that rest is just as easily obtainable within my own room."

"Then let us prove it one way or the other," Tréville suggested, bending to pick up Athos' boots from beneath the bed and holding them out to him. "A slow walk outside to one of the tables, a brief sit down in the sun and a slow walk back here. If there is no difficulty, you leave here and return to your room with light duties from tomorrow. If it causes you additional distress, you stay here for at least another forty-eight hours without complaint. Agreed?"

Athos was suspicious and his eyes narrowed. "Did Aramis put you up to this?"

"Absolutely not. It is a plan entirely of my own devising and, if I am doing something wrong that will set back your recovery by weeks, I shall have to face the wrath of Aramis. Are you coming? I wish to discuss our current mystery and would value your input," and he pushed the boots forward again, knowing that his invitation had piqued the interest of the young man.

Athos took them and slowly swung his legs around until his feet touched the floor, but his features contorted with pain as he attempted to bend to pull them on his feet. Sweat beaded his brow as he continued to struggle until, eventually, he looked up at the Captain with a silent plea.

Tréville crossed his arms. "Did I omit to say that you had to do this on your own if it were to mean anything to Aramis?" It was taking every fibre of his being not to drop to his knees to give assistance.

Athos tried again … and again, teeth clenched, sweat now trickling down his face as he resolved not to utter a sound, but he could not raise his left leg nor bend sufficiently to push or pull on the boots. At length, he gave up, kicking the boots beyond reach before glaring at the Captain. He pushed himself to his feet and stood there swaying unsteadily until he found his balance.

"Let us go," he said proudly through gritted teeth as he began to shuffle towards the door in his bare feet. He was slightly hunched over, his hands pressed protectively to his injured side.

Tréville watched the grim determination and wondered at the man's resolve. He snatched up the boots again and caught up with Athos at the door, holding him by the arm as he pulled up a chair and eased the injured man into it.

"Perhaps we need to work together if we are to convince Aramis," he said as he crouched at Athos' feet and helped him on with the boots.

Athos nodded his thanks and gratefully took the proffered arm to stand again. Together, he and Tréville made their way outside into the warm sunshine and began their slow, painful progress to the nearest table and bench. Musketeers sparring in the yard broke off from their training and, delighted to see him up and out, were about to approach but when Tréville shook his head, they maintained a respectful distance, calling out their well-wishes instead.

"I do not think we have the victory after that little display," Athos conceded when his rapidly beating heart had slowed sufficiently and he had regained enough breath to speak.

Tréville laughed. "The return journey will be much easier by comparison. Athos frowned in disbelief and allowed himself the luxury of a low groan.

The Captain beckoned to a cadet, "Ask Serge if he can provide us with some small treat. Athos and I are going to sit here and do some work."

They sat in silence. Athos closed his eyes and raised his face in appreciation of the warmth of the late afternoon sun. For such a dark-haired man, his skin was pale, and he avoided very bright sunlight whenever he could because he burned easily, something that greatly amused Aramis and Porthos but now, with his injury, his pallor was exacerbated, and he looked incredibly frail after his efforts to escape the infirmary.

The setting down of a heavy tray roused him and he looked up sleepily to discover Serge studying him carefully.

"That is a small treat?" Tréville said, referring to the laden tray.

"You get him to eat any o' this an' I'll bring you more," Serge declared.

"That will not be necessary," Athos assured him, "but thank you."

He was embarrassed when Tréville insisted on pouring him a cup of watered wine and cut small portions of bread, cheese and meat to set before him. The Captain dismissed his objections with an airy wave.

"He will be offended if you don't try to eat something," and Tréville gestured with a hunk of bread to where the old cook stood in the kitchen doorway, watching them.

Athos gave a wan smile, put some cheese on a piece of bread and took a bite. "I do believe the exercise has given me a little appetite."

The Captain was pleased. "Eating can only speed your recovery."

Athos managed a few more mouthfuls before he pushed his plate aside. "I will have more in a while," he reassured the older man, "but you wanted to discuss the 'mystery'? I think that is how you referred to it."

"Since I gave you all the relevant information, I have no doubt that you have spent time in your sick-bed mulling over the details. I would like to hear your opinion on the matter."

Athos paused, ordering his thoughts. "One group - most definitely French – attacked Aramis, Porthos and me. Another group, apparently pretending to be French and in French clothing, attacked and killed the Ambassador's entourage. You said no-one appeared to resist or defend themselves. That suggests his party knew their attackers and allowed them to get close, not suspecting any danger until it was too late.

"People they knew dressed in French clothing, however, would have alerted them to something not being right. You found only one corpse in French clothing – "

"Poorly fitting at that," Tréville reminded him.

"And the position of his fatal wound indicated that he was shot by one of his own. The whole scene was created to make it look as if we, the French, were responsible."

"So who would benefit from this?" Tréville pushed, pleased that his diversionary tactic was succeeding for Athos was visibly becoming more animated as he shared his ideas.

"Whoever did not want the Treaty ratified by the two countries. If there are two groups trying to stop it, then they must be from France and Spain. I did temporarily explore the idea that the English might be involved but I think King Charles would not want to offend his brother-in-law no matter how much he did not want to see a French alliance with Spain."

England's relationship with Spain had been very cold since 1623 when Charles had sought the hand of the Infanta in marriage, but negotiations had collapsed when he refused to convert to Catholicism. The situation had been further soured by the personal dispute that had erupted between the Duke of Buckingham and the Count of Olivares, the Spanish Prime Minister. The two Englishmen had returned home to urge the then Prince's father, King James, to declare war on Spain. Anglo-French relations had improved, however, when Charles sought another bride and made Louis' younger sister, Henrietta Maria, his Queen.

"I agree with you," Tréville said, "and we can hardly place the blame on Buckingham now, can we?"

"Hardly! The man might have been able to cause the maximum amount of mayhem when he lived but I doubt even his capabilities can extend from beyond the grave," Athos added.

Both he and Tréville had encountered the Duke when he besieged the Île de Ré when attempting to aid the Huguenots of La Rochelle and they had marvelled at the man's ineptitude, but that same poor strategy had ultimately led to his death. Despised by many in England, he had been assassinated by a disgruntled lieutenant the previous summer.

"So, if we eliminate the English – I concur with your reasoning, by the way – that leaves us with …." The Captain left his sentence unfinished.

"The Spanish and us," Athos concluded. "Whatever his twisted motives are, I can see Richelieu apparently supporting the negotiations on the one hand and doing all he can to destroy them with the other."

"And we must not forget the initials that Méndez wrote in his own blood."

"R-I-C." Athos muttered thoughtfully.

"That's right." Tréville said slowly and frowning for he could see a distinct change coming over the younger man. "What is going through your mind?"

Athos sat up straighter, wincing at the pain in his side. "I'm not sure. It could be nothing."

"Go on," Tréville urged. "I have exhausted all ideas; that is why I need your new and fresh approach to this."

Green eyes bored into his.

"Why do we think those letters must apply to Richelieu?" Athos asked.

"Because we assume Méndez was leaving some kind of clue as to the identity of the person who killed him or gave the order that led to his death. Do you think it was something else?"

"Not 'something', someone," Athos clarified. "A dying man wants to direct people to find the one responsible, but Méndez died before he could give us the rest of the name. It could be Richelieu; I, too, believe he is involved somehow but I am more inclined to accept that he would move against us as we carried the Treaty. We were easy targets. If he were to be discovered as the one behind the murder of a Spanish Ambassador, the repercussions would be far reaching."

Athos warmed to his subject. "He could be in league with the party that slew Méndez but supposing he had absolutely nothing to do with it? Had no idea that it was even going to take place?"

"Then we have two entirely disparate groups wanting the same thing," Tréville answered.

"Exactly! And if the other group is Spanish – as we suspect – suppose Méndez was not incriminating Richelieu? What would have made him think the Cardinal would want to stop the Treaty when they had worked so hard together to bring negotiations to fruition? No, Méndez was convinced that there was a Spanish faction determined to stop the Treaty; that is why we were sent to collect the real one from him, rather than a decoy.

"His retinue made no defence. We keep coming back to that. They _did_ know their attackers and _that_ is the name Méndez was writing; the one who led them or gave the order. It was not Richelieu.

"It was some influential Spaniard whose name also begins with R-I-C."


	22. Chapter 22

_**Dear all, thank you for the lovely reviews on the last chapter, all your best wishes for my next adventure and to the incredible number of readers in the past week.**_

 _ **'Revenge' develops apace behind the scenes as well.**_

 _ **So, here things are set up for the Musketeers to lurch towards the next stage of the mystery.**_

CHAPTER 22

Tréville studied the younger Musketeer with a mixture of awe, respect at the way the man's mind worked and simple pleasure that the problem-solving exercise had been successful in occupying him.

"That's a very good proposition," he said and refrained from making any further comment as Athos reached for a thick slice of meat and took a big bite.

He chewed on it thoughtfully as he stared ahead of him. The Captain decided to give him time and followed his example, placing a piece of cheese on a hunk of bread and eating.

Athos swallowed his mouthful and turned to Tréville. "But if we have the real Treaty already signed by Spain, what happens now?"

"As far as I understand, a Spanish representative would need to witness Louis' signature."

"And who witnessed for us in Spain?"

"Well, we had the advantage of the negotiations here in Paris between Méndez and Richelieu and the Treaty was drawn up here, but our Ambassador was present in Spain to validate when Phillip signed it. There will be a long delay now whilst Louis' messengers take the news of Méndez death and the circumstances surrounding it; what we know of it anyway.

"Then we have to wait even longer for someone to come back to us. Phillip could be angered by Méndez' murder and refuse to accept that we are innocent of the deed. If that's the case, the best we can hope for is the withdrawal of the Treaty; at worst …." Tréville sighed. "War."

"The alternative?" Athos sipped at the watered wine.

"If another Ambassador comes to Paris, then there is still hope that the Treaty will be ratified."

"And in the meantime, we have to continue trying to find those responsible," Athos stated, his tone sombre.

"We will continue but it is easier said than done. There is little or nothing to be done with regards to Spain, apart from voicing our suspicions to the new Ambassador."

"Assuming one will arrive in due course," Athos added grimly.

"Admittedly, so it is left to us to investigate the attack on you, Porthos and Aramis. We have Loret and the surviving members of his group in custody."

"But you said Richelieu had been very careful in covering any association with the attackers, working through someone else. And now, if we think that the R-I-C refers to an entirely different person, how can we link him into wanting the negotiations destroyed? What is his motive, and can we find the proof?"

Tréville breathed out heavily and slumped in his seat. "And I was beginning to feel more positive?" he complained.

"Sorry, I was just trying to be realistic." Athos looked genuinely dismayed a having dampened the mood.

Tréville patted his arm reassuringly. "I know, and for that I thank you. I do not want to accept it, especially after what happened to you three, but it is possible that we will never get to the bottom of this. I think the mystery woman is integral to it all. If we could just find her, bring some pressure to bear, we may be able to link her to Richelieu."

He watched Athos for any sign of reaction at the mention of the woman considering how distressed he had become when she was first referred to, but there was nothing. He remained perfectly calm and had, no doubt, realised that it was impossible for this woman to be the one he knew to be dead. A similarity in description was purely coincidental; there was no other possible explanation.

"Would she know that we hold Loret and some of the others?" Athos asked.

"I expect so if she is indeed an agent of Richelieu." Tréville frowned. "I wonder if we will encounter her again."

"Who knows," Athos said softly. His gaze drifted around the yard and Tréville suspected that he was losing focus; either that or he was looking for his friends.

"Are you rested enough to walk a little further?" the Captain asked.

Athos turned to him with a sheepish expression. "If it is not too far. I fear that Aramis will have his way and I shall have to remain in the Infirmary for a little longer."

"I suspected as much," Tréville grinned. "It is close. Only as far as the holding cell."

Athos' face darkened. "You wish for me to see the prisoners." It was a flat statement.

"To see one of them, yes; if you would. I would like you to see Loret." Tréville watched for any sign of impending resistance but there was none, merely curiosity.

"And the purpose?"

"The man was at Ré." Tréville waited as Athos absorbed the information.

"And that is of significance because?" The question was guarded.

Tréville related the story as Loret had told it; about being in the reinforcements that relieved the English siege of the island, hearing the story of the Frenchman who had swum to the mainland to alert the King and Richelieu and how he held the unknown man in high esteem. The Captain continued by explaining Loret's reaction on discovering that Athos, the man he had severely beaten for information, was that swimmer and how that revelation had affected him.

"That makes what he did to me different? I am supposed to accept it?" There was the familiar flash of anger in Athos and, to the Captain, it was strangely reassuring. "It has been just over a week and I might have recovered from this injury far sooner without his initial treatment. I detest this weakness and helplessness. Now I am expected to bestow forgiveness upon him?"

Tréville sat back and studied the injured man slouched on the opposite side of the table, the wound troubling enough that he still could not straighten. Since rescuing his best men and bringing them back to the safety of the garrison, Tréville's thoughts had turned once more to the replacement of his second-in-command, aided and abetted by prompts from Claude that he could no longer ignore.

There was no doubt that Athos had the strategic, perceptive mind necessary; he had proved that when analysing events on Ré and over the next two years. His skilful concealment of the Treaty – despite being annoying – was clever and his detailed insight into the current mystery was a further indication of his ability. His loyalty was beyond question, whether it be to his brothers, Tréville himself, the King or France, and he was better at controlling his inner demons. They were still there and surfaced from time to time. The Captain was no idiot and could recognise one hell of a hangover when he saw one, but Athos somehow never allowed it to impede his work.

He was also liked and admired by many within the regiment. Their respect was not easily given and when he first arrived at the garrison, he had done little to ingratiate himself with his colleagues. Rather, it was when Porthos and Aramis had gravitated towards him and a tentative friendship had begun to blossom. When they so obviously accepted him, the majority of the men had done likewise, although they could never draw close to the reserved soldier. That prerogative was only for Aramis and Porthos, and the Captain had watched with a mixture of fondness and pride as the disparate trio bonded into a formidable brotherhood.

There remained those who disliked him and amongst their number was Delacroix and his friends. The man was jealous of Athos, anyone with any common sense could see that and Tréville had had occasion to warn him more than once to desist in his bullying tactics. Surprisingly, and for reasons best known to himself, Athos generally refused to retaliate, much to the unhappiness of his friends who were more than willing to intervene on his behalf were he to allow them. Promoting Athos would undoubtedly rankle with Delacroix and he would go out of his way to create problems for the new lieutenant, but it was of his own making that he was already on a long-existing final warning.

One more shameful act against the other Musketeer and he would be stripped of the commission that had been purchased from the King for him by his father, a minor noble. Tréville hated it when Louis, the overall commander of his own regiment, ignored his advice and granted commissions where and when he chose, often on receipt of a large sum that went into the royal coffers rather than for the benefit of the men who served him. There was little Tréville could do or say but was thankful that such occasions were in the minority.

It was interesting to see that most of Delacroix' animosity stemmed from his misguided belief that he was Athos' social superior and, secretly, Tréville longed for the revelation of Athos' real identity. As the Comte de la Fère, he far outranked the lowly Delacroix whose own family title was relatively new, unlike the de la Fères, whose auspicious ancestry could be traced back to the twelfth century.

However, Athos had demonstrated that he could handle Delacroix with discretion and Tréville did not see this as any viable reason to hold back the young Comte in advancing in his preferred career. On the contrary, it demonstrated that he could manage the men he would lead. It was interesting, though, to see how he might deal with Loret's hero-worship.

"I do not ask you to forgive the man, but I know you and to hold a grudge is not within your nature." Tréville was still thinking about Delacroix and his veiled reference did not go unnoticed by Athos, whose attention shifted to fix upon the man concerned. Delacroix had just exited the stables and, noticing the two sitting together across the yard, he stopped, stared and scowled before going on his way.

No, Tréville thought. Delacroix was likely to cause trouble or, considering the warning, ensure that his friends did, and he would need careful monitoring when the Captain's decision was announced.

 _When!_ He had definitely thought 'when' and not 'if'. Perhaps he was resolved as to the identity of his new lieutenant. He would have to make recommendation to the King before it was confirmed and now was probably not the right time with Louis so distracted by the threat to his relations with his brother-in-law and Spain. Athos had already conducted himself favourably and bravely in the events so far and there was still time to make a better impression.

"You seem distracted." Athos was speaking to him.

"I am sorry. I have much on my mind at present. What were you saying?"

A frown creased Athos' brow as if he were trying to ascertain whether or not he believed the Captain. "I was asking what you wanted me to do in this meeting with Loret if there is no expectation of my forgiveness."

Tréville's face hardened. "You use his respect for you to your advantage. He is an ex-soldier, invalided out of service, who has fallen on hard times and who is prepared to do anything for money. That does not excuse him in the slightest, but it is clear that he regrets his mistreatment of you. Your act on Ré profoundly affected the man and I am prepared to wager that he would do anything he could to make amends."

"You wish for me to give him that opportunity?"

"After what happened at the Abbey, I will not order you; it is entirely your choice. It is possible, however, that he withheld information from me or that he has genuinely forgotten, and a well-chosen question might prompt a memory. We need something, anything that can link Richelieu to this business and Loret is the only other person who has had contact with the mystery woman."

Athos said nothing for a while, long enough for Tréville to suspect that he might refuse, but then he took a deep breath and used the table to push himself awkwardly to his feet.

"Please walk with me. I am not sure that I can get that far entirely unaided."

Tréville nodded and rose to join him, appreciating that the request was not easily made by a man who was so fiercely independent. Together, the Captain with a steadying hand at Athos' elbow, they moved down the side of the yard towards the holding cell and to Loret.

 _ **A/N**_

 _ **A little bit of history - haven't done one of these for a long time. Was doing some research today, found a new site that I hadn't discovered before and the seed was planted for another pre-series story! Anyway, just to clarify …**_

 _ **I said above that Louis was the overall commander. It wasn't until 1634 that Monsieur de Montalant (Captain of the Musketeers) resigned. Tr**_ _ **é**_ _ **ville was his lieutenant at the time and had been promoted because of his prowess in battle, not least in a conflict involving the Duke of Savoy! (See where I might be going with this, with a few twists on fact?)**_

 _ **Louis decide to name himself Captain, so the newly promoted**_ _ **Tréville was referred to as Captain-Lieutenant. Consequently, Athos (if he were promoted) would be sub-lieutenant. The purchase of a commission or rank could be very costly (thinking of Delacroix here). Had Treville been in a position to buy his Captain-Lieutenant rank, it would have set him back the equivalent of £200,000!**_

 _ **Another interesting gem was that when first formed into Musketeers (they were originally Heni IV's Carbineers who used carbines), they did not have a uniform to go along with their new muskets. On parade for special occasions, Louis would get them to dress in different things until he settled on their final look. They were encouraged to try all black or … wait for it … leather!**_


	23. Chapter 23

_**Thank you, everyone, for reading the last chapter and to those who left the lovely, encouraging comments. So, Athos and Loret meet and there was plenty to be said!**_

 _ **(Hence the long chapter! Please excuse any careless typos or other mistakes, I have done a quick check but it is 1.25 am and I really do need my bed!)**_

CHAPTER 23

"What on earth do they think they're doing?" Aramis did not shout but Porthos immediately sensed his anger from the set of the marksman's shoulders as he ground to a halt in front of the big Musketeer, his attention taken by something further down the yard.

"Who? What you talkin' about?" He could not see to whom Aramis was referring as he emerged through the doorway after the marksman; they had been eating together in the Mess room once Aramis had assured Porthos that Athos was perfectly safe in the Infirmary in the company of the Captain. Now, it seemed that the assertion had been misjudged and Aramis was not happy. He broke into a run and quickly caught up with the pair.

"I think you are going in the wrong direction," he began. "I was under the impression that the Infirmary was over there," and he pointed back the way they had come.

"We were just taking a slow walk," Tréville explained. "We have rested in the sunshine."

"I wanted to test how well I was recovering," Athos added defensively, not wanting Tréville to face Aramis' wrath alone.

"Obviously not as well as you thought," Aramis' reply was caustic.

Athos was reluctant to voice his agreement, but he was wondering if he looked as bad as he was beginning to feel. He was moving like an old man, unable to straighten because he was aware of the pull on the stitching in his side. The pain relief that Aramis had given him some time ago had worn off and his current bout of activity was exacerbating the discomfort, but he was not about to confess to that. He was now sweating profusely at the effort and he tried to ignore the trickle that escaped from his hairline to run down his cheek.

It had not gone unnoticed by Aramis though. His eyes narrowed in suppressed anger as he took Athos' arm. "Perhaps the Captain will help me get you back to bed."

Athos shook off his hold and took an unsteady step backwards.

"No, I have something to do first," he insisted.

"You don't have to do it right now. It was ill-advised of me to suggest it," Tréville admitted, his concern and guilt apparent. "It is too soon, and I fear that our little excursion has overtaxed you for you do not look well. Let us get you back to the Infirmary."

"Before you collapse on us," Aramis added coldly.

"No!" Athos insisted. "I will see Loret."

"Loret!" Aramis was in disbelief. "You are going to see the prisoner who did this to you?"

"I am," Athos was adamant. "It is but a few more steps and then I can sit down." He glared at Aramis defiantly, an expression they all knew and understood only too well; the Captain had already been on the receiving end of it before they left the Infirmary. "Someone will bring me something to sit on, won't they?"

Porthos wanted to ease the tension emanating from all three men. "I'll go." He headed in the direction of the stables where he knew there were wooden stools used by the stable boys when they were cleaning or repairing tack.

"This is madness," Aramis persisted, looking first at Athos and then silently appealing to the Captain for assistance.

Athos would have none of it and knew that he was now being his own worst enemy as a vague nausea stirred in the pit of his stomach, but the more Aramis objected, the more intransigent he became.

"I will speak with prisoner Loret and then I will go back to bed. On that, you have my word."

Aramis had to be satisfied with that. It took a while but eventually they stood before the door of the cell where Loret was being held apart from his confederates. The Musketeer guard unlocked the door and barked an order for the prisoner to stand against the far wall. Once Loret did that, Porthos entered with a stool and set it down just inside the door before he stepped out again.

Transfixed by this sudden burst of activity, Loret stood in silence until Tréville appeared in the doorway supporting another Musketeer. He gasped in recognition as the Captain helped lower Athos down onto the stool.

Athos shut his eyes momentarily for the stool was lower than he had anticipated, and he breathed hard through the pain, not wanting to appear weak but unable to avoid it.

Loret took an involuntary step forward but his movement was accompanied by the cocking of a pistol from behind the Captain.

"Stand where you are," Aramis ordered, his arm perfectly straight as he trained his weapon on the prisoner. "Take one more step towards him and it will be your last."

Tréville straightened up from where he had been settling Athos and put out a hand to encourage Aramis to lower his weapon, his eyes and words on Loret. "I suggest that you do as he says. He is somewhat protective of his friend, especially after what you did to him, and I may be unable to prevent Aramis from exacting some sort of retribution. I hope you understand."

Loret retreated to the wall again and nodded his acceptance.

Resting his hand lightly on Athos' shoulder in a gesture of reassurance, the Captain said, "We will be just outside," and then ushered Aramis out of the holding cell before him. With them gone, an uncomfortable silence descended on the space and Loret shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

Athos studied the man before him as if seeing him for the first time, the disconcerting gaze missing nothing. Loret looked older, early forties, but his hard existence since being invalided out of the military possibly had much to do with ageing him prematurely. Shorter than Athos by almost a head, he was solid in stature and no doubt carried more weight than the lean Musketeer, but he had not allowed himself to run to useless fat. There was a firm musculature about him, and he certainly had power in his fists; of that, Athos was in no doubt. He had experienced first-hand the level of physical punishment that Loret was capable of delivering. There was no mistaking the carriage and bearing of a soldier; the man had obviously tried to keep himself as fit as possible, even if it were just to sell his skills to the highest bidder.

Loret stared back, fidgeting in the face of such unwavering scrutiny.

"So," Athos said eventually. "Which one of us is going to begin?" His voice was level and devoid of any expression, not even the vague curiosity that he was feeling, were he to admit it.

Loret stammered a few disjointed words, incapable of forming a complete sentence in the presence of the man he revered and yet abused.

Athos was in no mood to be amused or remotely satisfied by the conflicting emotions he could see so clearly on the prisoner's face. It was, perhaps, a good thing that Loret would never be in a position to play cards with Porthos for there was no doubt as to the victor; Loret would be defeated every time.

"The Captain said you wanted to see me," Athos went on, his features unforgiving for he was determined not to make the meeting easy for the prisoner.

"Er, yes," Loret began, wringing his hands together as he rapidly wondered how to proceed. He made to move forward again but as soon as Athos stiffened with a muted gasp, he returned to the wall, his hands outstretched in a conciliatory manner. "Sorry; I'm sorry. I know, I have been told; I must stay here at the wall."

"I have had experience of your close proximity," Athos ground out, "and I have no desire to repeat it."

"Yes, yes, I know. I understand." Loret hesitated. "For that, I am sorry."

Athos frowned, not at Loret's words, but rather with the realisation that his own breathing was shallow and rapid, his palms suddenly damp with sweat and his chest tight with a burgeoning anger.

"For what?" he demanded. "Sorry for beating me senseless more than once or sorry for the fact that you were caught and now face charges for treason?"

"No, no; that is, yes." Loret was flustered and inhaled deeply. "Let me explain."

"Go ahead," Athos ordered, still giving nothing away.

"How …how are you feeling?" Loret asked, changing the subject in the hope that a different approach might be more warmly received. Even so, he gestured awkwardly to the Musketeer's visible bruises and the place at his side where he had been caught by an attacker's blade.

"I'll live," Athos countered bitterly, "but I have not come here to discuss my health. Say what you need to say and then I can return to the infirmary where I may continue my recuperation uninterrupted. That should give you some indication as to how I am feeling."

Loret visibly shrank at the vitriolic outburst but the Musketeer had not finished.

"Or by using the term 'feeling' were you hoping to ascertain my state of mind regarding what has happened and my attitude towards you? If so, let me enlighten you in no uncertain terms. I despise and hate you for what you have done, not just to me, but to my brothers and a religious gathering of men who made a vow to abjure the world and the sinful ways of men, including the use of violence. Instead, you visited it upon them in a House of God with little thought to the effect your threats and behaviour might have upon them, many of them elderly and not strong. For that alone, you need to count yourself blessed that I am both injured and without a weapon. Were that not the case, I can assure you that only one of us would still be standing and breathing after this encounter."

His aristocratic upbringing was there in every syllable, his consonants becoming increasingly clipped as he spoke, and each word carefully enunciated to leave Loret in no doubt as to his reception. The prisoner had never heard the man utter so much.

Unbeknown to Athos, the three men outside the cell door were also growing more anxious at what they were overhearing. Having declared that they were not going to eavesdrop, they had been reluctant to go too far from the door and all of them could hear the exchanges, although they had to strain to hear Athos at times, given the low, rich timbre of his voice. Porthos paced the dusty ground and periodically cast a worried glance in the direction of the open doorway, a hand on the hilt of his sword as he prepared to dash in, should the need arise.

Aramis shook his head in Tréville's direction. "This meeting is not going well. What did you hope to achieve?"

The Captain tried to respond with a calmness he was not necessarily experiencing. "Loret wanted to see his hero and Athos was curious, but I fear that he is struggling and should, perhaps, pursue this at another time."

"Are you going to pull him out?"

"Sssh!" Porthos insisted. "They're talkin' again."

Back inside the cell, Loret sounded bleak, "You would kill me where I stand?"

"No. Not in here. No man deserves such an ignominious end. I would give you a chance, hand you a sword and meet you face to face out there in the yard – but not today. I would have more equality between us."

Fortunately for Porthos, who gave a loud snort of disbelief at the comment, Athos was so focused on Loret that the outburst went unheard.

Loret dipped his head in acknowledgement. "You are, indeed, the honourable man I always believed you to be."

Athos' brow furrowed at the unexpected reaction to his words. "What do you mean?"

"After all I have done, not least to you, you would give me the opportunity to meet a worthy death."

"You make the assumption that I would be the victor."

Loret dared to laugh. "You are a Musketeer. To be one of the King's élite, I also assume that your skills must exceed mine; even had I maintained my career as a serving soldier, I would not have similar training nor your level of ability."

It was fortunate that Athos' reputation as a swordsman had not reached Loret's ears. Undoubtedly the best of Tréville's men with the weapon, he was also widely believed to be the best in Paris, and some would even go so far as to claim he was the foremost swordsman in France, although Athos generally scoffed at that description if he happened to hear it. His current injury would create difficulties and deny him fluidity of movement and speed, but he would still have pushed Loret to the limit; fully recovered and Loret would stand no chance against him, Musketeer or not.

"It would be an honour for me to die by your hand, even though I do not merit it." The words were quietly but sincerely delivered as Loret slid down the wall to sit on the dirt floor.

It was an unconscious yet bizarre act of contrition that gave the Musketeer the psychological advantage of height, sitting as he was on a stool.

Athos was uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation. "Why do you say such things? I neither desire nor deserve your admiration."

Loret fixed him with an incredulous stare. "On the contrary, you deserve the admiration of so many after what you did on Ré and succeeded in making that swim."

Athos shrugged dismissively. "Someone needed to do it and I thought I might reach the mainland, so I volunteered."

"Might! You did not know before you got into the water whether you could swim that far?"

"I had never swum that distance, either before or since. All I knew was that I was a strong swimmer and hoped to cope with the current."

Loret's jaw dropped. Athos was speaking as if he were deliberating which shirt to don in the morning. "But supposing you had failed?"

"A strange and unnecessary question considering the obvious alternate outcome. I would have drowned. That prospect was enough to motivate me."

"But you still attempted the swim, not knowing if you would live or die?"

Athos frowned again, not really understanding why Loret was so obsessed by his past action. To him, it was history, and much had happened in the intervening two years and so he tried to structure a suitable answer that would satisfy this strange man who continued to gaze at him, open-mouthed.

"One thing I did know for certain. Had no-one reached the mainland to report to the King and the Cardinal, Governor Toiras would have surrendered to the English within two days. The food had virtually run out in the Citadel and we had innocent women and children in there with us. What we had went first to them, but a soldier cannot be expected to function adequately when he is weakened and pained by an empty belly. Hunger becomes the new enemy then and a musket or sword can do nothing to alleviate that.

"Sickness was rife; Porthos was gravely ill and Aramis was exhausted by helping as many as he could, but the medical store was virtually empty. It was a simple choice; one friend was desperate for medicine that might save his life and the other was desperate for that medicine to give him and others. I believed that I had the means and skill to help, so that is what I did." He became thoughtful, his eyes focused on a far distant point. "And if at any time I considered myself a coward, then so be it."

"A coward?" Loret thought he had misheard. "How could you ever think of yourself as a coward?"

Athos' attention was drawn back to the prisoner. "Death was an escape from a past that continues to haunt me to this day. You need not know the details," he added quickly as Loret took a deep breath and was about to object or ask more. "Perhaps my penance was my survival, my continued existence to live out each day with its memories. More than that, though, it meant that I did not have to stay and see my brothers die."

Loret sat still, as if hardly daring to breathe for fear of destroying the moment and what was being revealed to him.

"We are soldiers," Athos went on, "and as such, we expect to fall on the battlefield, shoulder to shoulder and fighting to our last breath. As one who was a soldier, you must understand that," and he fixed Loret with a fierce glare until the other man nodded his agreement. "It was not right that Porthos should succumb to sickness and that Aramis …." His voice trailed off as he considered the likely consequences.

"That Aramis and my Captain, as well as the men who were comrades-in-arms, would have faced the ignominy of surrender to an English force that may well have shown no honour. They may have had to endure mistreatment, torture even for daring to hold out in the Citadel for as long as they did, or they could have been starved to death." His mind went back to the hundreds of English corpses floating in the shallows at Sablanceau, drowned through their own foolishness and ill-discipline. If the officers – and he included Buckingham in that – could not control their men, how could those same men be expected to treat their French prisoners with any humanity?

Loret was listening hard, his face indescribably sad. "Your loyalty to your brothers is commendable, something that is enviable. I, too, had a friend, Lucien, who was more than a blood brother to me, but he died on Ré. The assault that finished my life as a soldier finished him, and I was not with him at the end. I was already wounded, unconscious and did not learn of his passing for three days. The life I knew, although it was a hard one, was over; there was nothing left. It gave me purpose, comrades, a reason for facing the danger; I had sworn my oath of allegiance to serve King and country and then … then it was no more. It would have been better if I had also died of my injuries."

"But you didn't." The calm observation was a harsh reminder to Loret.

"You're right; I didn't and so I had decisions to make, paths to follow – or so I thought. You are a Musketeer, one of the King's chosen. What do you know of having nothing? Of having no family and losing the only person you dared to call friend?"

Athos clamped his mouth shut for he was not about to reveal anything else to the prisoner. If he had not given certain information to his brothers and even held back on how much he had admitted to Tréville, he was not about to share it with the man who had been prepared to hunt him like an animal and kill him when he found him.

Loret continued his tale. "There was no recompense for losing my livelihood and no employment for a man could not move as easily as others. I was a veteran and yes, I have a limp, but that is in my leg, not in my head. It has nothing to do with my brain or my ability to think and act; I can still move. I am not incapable, but try telling that to the generous, thankful people of Paris that I am a returning soldier who wants work to earn his living, not to hold out his hand for charity. You said yourself that hunger is the new enemy and so it was with me and I had to fight that enemy. You see, grief and anger can do strange things to a man."

Still Athos remained silent, partly because he really was not feeling well and partly because he was trying to listen so intently, for there was much in Loret's story that was similar to his own.

"I suddenly found that I wanted to live so very much. I had survived an Englishman's bullet and I owed it to Lucien not to give up. There were limited options left open to me, but I still had many skills, even if the military did not think me capable of putting them into practice so I turned to those who needed my skills and would pay me well. And so it was that I defeated hunger and want."

Athos felt light-headed, weak and uncomfortable sitting on the low stool so that he began to long for quiet and his bed in the infirmary. He was compelled to hear Loret's story, but it filled him with disquiet.

"Am I proud of what I have become?" Loret asked. "No, but it came out of desperation. I heard about what you did on Ré whilst we were preparing to sail for the island. Part of me thought it was just a story but another part of me wanted so much for it to be true because, for me, you were all that embodied honour, integrity, honesty and bravery, and what you've told me here just proves it."

"You have a very misguided view of me," Athos interrupted, his voice sounding far away and – had he not known otherwise – drunk, but Loret shook his head, refusing to accept what he was saying.

"No. You have helped me realise that, in selling my sword, I could not sink any lower. I cannot begin to put into words the feelings of shame and guilt I have for what I did to you. You can deny it all you want but you have shown me that you are everything that I am not. You stand for everything that I once held dear, and more. There is nothing I can do or say to make amends for what I have done, and I am not asking you for forgiveness, but I will promise you this.

"I do not know her name or how to reach her but, should you find the woman you believe is behind this, I will identify her for you and am prepared to testify against her in a court of law."

Athos dipped his head slowly to show his thanks, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was reeling with what he had heard from Loret. He had been so determined to hate the man, but that intense feeling was mellowing as he realised …realised what? Why could he not find the right word? This man thought too highly of him; it was not right for Loret did not – could not – know Athos and what he had done in the past, long before Ré.

What is it Aramis would have said?

"There but for the grace of God go I."

Athos could have been Loret as he sat in the taverns of Paris drowning in alcohol, grief, anger, self-loathing and self-pity. He could have taken the wrong path; there were plenty to be selected other than the oblivion he was seeking at the time.

But then he had met Tréville and it had all changed. Not immediately. It had taken – was still taking – time. He had been too lost for instant salvation.

Salvation! Where had that come from? And why should he think of God's grace? As far as he was concerned, he and God had definitely gone down different routes.

He shook his head, trying to clear it and saw Loret look at him strangely but then, Loret himself began to look strange. The prisoner was distorted, elongated as he sat on the floor and then swayed from side to side .

Or was he the one who was swaying? He felt sick and was so hot. Sweat seemed to drip from every pore and his head ached but that was bearable in comparison to the fire that burned in his side. He was vaguely aware that Loret was on his feet, shouting for Tréville. Why was he bellowing for the Captain?

Tréville. Athos had just been thinking about him, but why? Something to do with when they met and decisions and pathways and salvation and …. Why could he not think?

Was Tréville his saviour? He had come across Athos at just the right time but had the Captain saved him from drowning or had Athos decided to save himself, or at least catch the lifeline that had been thrown to him? How had it come to pass?

His world was darkening around the edges. Voices, several of them, were talking to him, around him, over him but he could not determine their meaning except for when they said his name. He wanted them to speak up and clearly, but his own voice refused to respond. Hands reached for him, helped him to his feet, supported him and took his weight as they walked him. Where? Where was he going? All he wanted was to lie down and sleep; he could just as easily do that in the holding cell. The dark was spreading so that he sensed rather than saw that he was being led out into the yard. The fresh air, so far removed from the dank stench of the cell, threatened to overwhelm him.

It was then that his body failed him. His legs could no longer keep him upright and he did not even have the strength to hold up his head so that it lolled forward on his chest just as his lower limbs rebelled. The last conscious thought he had was being thankful that the hands holding him did not allow him to pitch forward on his face but, instead, helped him sink slowly and elegantly to the ground.


	24. Chapter 24

_**Bit shorter than the previous chapter but thank you SO much for the wonderful comments.**_

 _ **Yes, it was a trying encounter for Athos as he realised that he could have been a Loret! He didn't like being hailed as a hero, either.**_

 _ **I have checked this so any remaining errors are all my fault. So, what happened next?**_

CHAPTER 24

I

Tréville stood in the palace library, his eyes glazed at the litany of the King's complaints, most of which centred on the inconvenience of the Ambassador's murder and the resultant delay in the ratification of the Treaty. It did not matter what the Cardinal said to him, there was no placating the monarch because the First Minister could not give him any assurance that the Spanish would respond any time soon and he did not have the means to speed up the process.

"But Phillip has already signed it, so we know he was in favour of it. Why can't I just sign it? After all, we do have it in our possession at last, no thanks to the delay incurred by your Musketeers, Tréville" Louis pouted.

The Captain ground his teeth and immediately admonished himself for the bad habit, but he had to remain calm because remonstrating with the King would serve no purpose whatsoever; it never did. Whilst he wanted to defend his men yet again in the face of an unfair accusation, he knew Louis was far too distracted to pay attention. The Musketeer officer knew from experience which battles to fight, and which required a tactical withdrawal. This was definitely one of those latter occasions. It was encouraging that Richelieu was finding Louis' attitude equally frustrating for there was no other reason for the Cardinal's red face.

"As I have explained to you before, Sire, it is necessary for the signing to be witnessed by a representative of both parties. If you were to sign it without a Spanish witness, they would have every right to reject it. Your Ambassador to Spain was present when your brother-in-law added his signature."

"But I do not understand why your word would not suffice, Armand." Louis flapped his arms indignantly. "Are you not important enough?" It was a sly jibe, a manoeuvre sometimes employed by Louis when he wanted his own way.

Richelieu took a sharp intake of breath. "I am important enough to negotiate treaties, Your Majesty, but my word would not suffice if we were all Frenchmen in attendance when you took up your pen. For example," and he looked at Tréville for support, "I could sign it, pretending to be you, and arrange for the Captain here to be the only witness. It could be a conspiracy between us, or I could pay him handsomely to claim that the signature was yours."

Tréville raised an eyebrow at this impromptu foray into a life of corruption but at least the King was listening.

"I see what you mean, my dear Cardinal. It really wouldn't be the thing, would it?"

The Captain and the Cardinal shared a look of relief, having successfully averted what could have amounted to a major international incident.

"A wise decision, Your Majesty," Richelieu conceded. Flattery was always a useful tool.

"So in the meantime, we just have to wait to see how the Spanish react," Louis went on.

"Quite so, Sire." Richelieu clasped his hands behind his back and the three men fell into an uncomfortable silence.

"Well," Louis said at last, unable to endure the quietness, "That's that then. How I hate waiting but if you are sure that there is nothing more that we can do …"

"Nothing, Your Majesty," Richelieu said firmly.

Louis thought for a moment and then clapped his hands together as if he had solved all their problems. "Then so be it. We will wait but right now, gentlemen, as there is nothing more to discuss, I am concluding this meeting," and he was already heading towards the door that led to his private apartments. "I have other pressing things that demand my attention. Busy, busy, busy!"

And he was gone. Richelieu and Tréville stared at the closed door through which he had passed.

"Busy," Tréville repeated flatly. The implication was that the King was busier than the Captain and the country's First Minister.

"No doubt he has an appointment with his tailor," the Cardinal commented drily.

"Before I go," Tréville said, turning to face Richelieu. "When this sorry business began, you said you had the names of three Spaniards who were opposed to Méndez and Phillip and you were going to let me see them, but I was distracted by my missing men. I'd like to see them now please."

Richelieu's eyes narrowed and he paused long enough for the Captain to surmise that the Cardinal had expected him to forget about the names. He hoped he would not have to argue and force the issue to see the list.

"Very well," Richelieu said, his reluctance evident. "Come with me."

II

Returning to the garrison, Tréville headed straight to the infirmary, jubilantly tapping the pocket that safely held his list of the Spaniards' names.

He slipped unnoticed through the door and watched the occupants, the atmosphere thick with tension.

Athos was sitting up in bed, supported by several pillows and arms folded across his chest. Tréville's mouth quirked in amusement. Until he met the younger musketeer, he had not known anyone who could imbue such a wide variety of feelings into so simple a gesture. It ranged from utter relaxation, through outright boredom to measured thoughtfulness, silent warning, suppressed anger and, finally, to an act of defensiveness. The latter was rare but when adopted, it was usually when aspects of the personal were the main points of a conversation. Now, there was a hint of defiance as his face bore his familiar inscrutable mask and his eyes followed Aramis, whose exaggerated movements as he worked screamed his ongoing displeasure.

"Are you going to persevere in subjecting me to the silent treatment?" he eventually asked.

Aramis threw down the fresh bandage he had been rolling with some difficulty, one arm still in its sling, and rounded on him. "Why should I expend the energy talking to you when you refuse to listen to anything I say?"

"That is inaccurate. I do listen to you."

"Now you're being your usual, awkward, pedantic self. I suppose I should be thankful and accept it as a sign of your progress."

Athos merely raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Selective hearing, that's what you suffer from. You choose what you want to hear and, where your well-being is concerned, you persist in turning a deaf ear," Aramis went on. "I am going to find Porthos, have a nice, two-sided conversation and perhaps have something to eat. I will send you something."

As he turned to leave, he spotted the Captain.

"Not interrupting, am I?" Tréville could not resist the observation.

"Oh, just what I needed!" and Aramis threw up his hands in despair. "Your partner-in-crime has arrived." He directed this to Athos before turning back to Tréville. "To spare me the time of a search or the surprise, could you tell me before I go where your expedition might take you today?"

Tréville smiled tolerantly, ignoring that Aramis' attitude bordered on insubordination, but rather understanding that it was borne of his consternation for his friend and the frustration of his own slow recovery.

"I don't think we'll be straying from here," Tréville reassured him.

"Hmmm," Aramis shot them both a disbelieving glare and left them.

"Perhaps he won't be so angry once he's had some dinner," Athos said when he and the Captain were alone.

Tréville was puzzled. "Dinner is not until this evening; he has gone for his midday meal. Besides, he's only pretending to be angry now. His storm blew out hours ago."

Now it was Athos who was confused. "Hours ago?" Time, as he knew it, had become very muddled. "How long has it been since I left Loret?"

"That was yesterday afternoon," Tréville said gently. The idea that Athos had 'left' Loret suggested that he had made a controlled exit, when it had been anything but! He was well aware that Athos had only persisted in seeing Loret to prove a point when, almost from the outset, he was clearly struggling. He had walked too far for being out of bed the first time; he was evidently in pain and he looked ghastly, a grey hue coloured his skin and sweat poured from him.

Standing outside the cell with Porthos and Aramis and listening to the admissions being made within, it had come as no surprise to Tréville when the prisoner shouted his name repeatedly. He had got through the door fractionally ahead of Aramis, who probably let him go first only because Loret had called for the officer.

It was immediately clear that Athos was on the verge of collapse, his eyes rolling in his head as he swayed dangerously and threatened to slide sideways off the stool. Tréville reached out and steadied him, calling for Porthos to help as Aramis, hampered by his sling, spoke repeatedly to Athos but was unable to elicit a coherent response.

The Captain and Porthos pulled Athos to his feet and, with one on either side of him as they held him up, they attempted to walk him out of the cell and back to the infirmary. Tréville would never forget the heat emanating through the sweat-soaked shirt nor the moment when Athos became incapable of standing.

"He's going!" Porthos warned, as he and the Captain had no choice but to lower Athos slowly to the ground. He had become a dead weight between them, and Aramis was swift to step forward and ascertain that Athos had lost consciousness.

As they crouched around the fallen Musketeer, Tréville called to several men who had been in the process of sparring in the middle of the yard but who had abruptly stopped when they saw Athos crumple. Three of them approached and, together with Porthos, who insisted that he did not need help in carrying Athos alone, they bore the stricken man back to the infirmary and his bed.

"Yesterday?" Athos considered what he had just learned. He sighed. "Aramis gave me something, didn't he?"

Tréville picked up a chair by its back and repositioned it beside Athos' bed.

"He didn't need to for some time. I'll admit you gave me quite a scare, passing out the way you did, especially when you didn't stir again for such a long time. You don't remember any of that, do you?"

Athos shook his head.

"You stirred three or four times during the evening but the last time, Aramis did give you something to help you sleep more restfully."

He was not about to add that, when vaguely awake, Athos was distracted – distressed even – and his mumbled words often incoherent, but the Captain heard and understood enough to recognise that the meeting with Loret had deeply affected the younger man and its ramifications could potentially be felt for some time. It would not help Athos to know that his periods of vulnerability had been witnessed.

So Tréville strove to lighten the mood by changing the subject.

"I have just returned from the palace and thought that you might be interested to learn of the latest developments."

Athos was instantly intrigued, as Tréville hoped he would be, but they were interrupted by the door opening and the arrival of Porthos bearing a tray of food which he set down on a table.

"Nice to see you properly awake at last," he grinned broadly, wiping his hands on the back of his breeches. "Serge and Aramis sent this. I'll be back to see you when I've eaten."

When Porthos had gone, Athos pushed aside the bedding and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

"Wait! Stop! What do you think you're doing?" Tréville demanded, leaping to his feet and debating whether or not he should immediately summon Aramis to dispense another sleeping draught.

"I refuse to stay in this bed. I am quite capable of sitting at the table; we can talk just as easily there."

Tréville was not so convinced as he watched Athos slowly make his way from the bed to the table, using the chairback to help him as he went. The Captain hovered nearby, hoping that he was not going to have to catch the young man for the second time in twenty-four hours. He released the breath he had been holding as soon as Athos achieved his goal.

"All the better for eating," the officer commented with annoying enthusiasm as he spied two bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread.

"What is this predilection of everybody to get me to eat?" Athos said scowling.

Tréville knew that it was time to scold and he adopted an appropriate tone. "Aramis is correct in that you are being deliberately awkward! I should not have to remind you that you need to eat to build up your strength and recover more swiftly. Yesterday was an unwanted demonstration of what happens when you try to do too much too soon and when you are still too weak. So you will empty this bowl; it is only half full to tempt you. You don't have to touch the bread if you don't want it but you will eat the other, and just in case you are in any doubt, that's an order."

It was like coaxing a recalcitrant child to eat and Tréville wondered how the other man functioned on the amount he had seen the soldier eat, even when he was fully healthy. Meals seemed to be an unwelcome necessity to Athos; he would sit and share food with the others to be sociable, but it never appeared to be enjoyed, not like Porthos. Mind you, Tréville corrected himself, no-one enjoyed food like Porthos did. He was the dream guest at a table for any cook.

"So," Athos prompted, a spoon half-raised to his lips, "what were you going to tell me?"

As Tréville recounted what had happened at the palace, he surreptitiously watched the patient eat the stew almost without realising. Athos had to be hungry for he had had nothing since just before his collapse the day before, and even then he had not had much. So, he had to be distracted to eat – and ordered. That was an interesting revelation!

Setting his own empty bowl aside, he reached for the piece of paper. This was his real reason for coming to see Athos and he could not wait to see the young Musketeer's reaction to what was written there. If he required any more distraction, this was it.

"Richelieu had the names of three prominent Spaniards whom he knew opposed the Treaty. I had forgotten about them in the search for you three, but I reminded the Cardinal again today. He reluctantly showed me the names and I wrote them down." He pushed the paper across the table.

Athos picked it up and unfolded it, his brow creasing as he deciphered the Captain's scrawl.

It had not taken Tréville long to notice something very significant about one of the names, but he was delighted when he saw that same realisation come more quickly to Athos. The soldier shot him an amazed glance before perusing the paper again.

"Domingo Hernandez," he read aloud, "Hector Pizarro and Rodrigo Ignacio de Calatrava."

Green eyes met blue at the discovery. "R-I-C!"


End file.
